


Burn My Bridges Down

by Itsagrifthing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description, K9 unit, M/M, More tags to come!, Paranoia, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9591722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsagrifthing/pseuds/Itsagrifthing
Summary: Wash didn't know what to expect when he walked into Coon's Cafe one day after school. He certainly didn't expect his life to be turned upside-down. He didn't expect to be catapulted into a world he had no idea even existed. And he certainly didn't expect to find the most unlikely friends in the most unlikely of places.





	1. Pilot

Wash didn’t know  _ what _ to expect when he walked into the coffee shop one day after class, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

The place had been recommended to him several times throughout the year by various people, and after a particularly taxing day filled with exams and troublesome peers, he finally decided to check it out for himself. He assumed it was just a regular shop, with regular customers, regular employees and regular coffee. He wasn’t sure just what made it so special. 

He certainly didn’t expect his order to be taken by the  _ fucking hulk.  _

He wasn’t sure exactly how long he stood staring at the enormous mass of a person behind the counter, but a grunt from the man was enough to snap Wash out of his reverie. He shook his head, and pushed away the initial shock. 

“I’ll have… um,” he started, and realized that he hadn’t actually looked at the menu yet. “Um…” He was floundering, and he was sure that his face was turning an un-godly shade of red. His mouth gaped open like a fish starved for air as he desperately tried to think of anything--  _ anything _ \-- to order. The big man behind the counter was gazing down at him with an odd expression, sort of a mix between impatience and amusement. Still out-of-whack from the sudden shock, Wash pushed away thoughts of how closely this man’s face resembled his cat. 

“I’ll have a… um, Mocha, please. With extra sugar. And a chocolate chip cookie.” Wash was sort of proud of himself when he managed to stutter out his order. The man raised an eyebrow, and punched a few keys on the register. The total appeared on a small screen, and the man looked at him pointedly. After a few seconds, Wash realized what he wanted, and fumbled to pull out his credit card. It took him way too long. 

After what seemed like decades, he finally managed to extract his visa from the depths of his old leather wallet and hand it over to the man, who swiped it with practiced efficiency and handed it back. 

“Thanks…” Wash muttered. The man turned his back to Wash, and began making his Mocha. Wash leaned against the counter for a few minutes, awkwardly staring around the restaurant. Most of the booths were empty, but then again, it  _ was _ a Tuesday afternoon. 

The restaurant was oddly decorated, with no theme (crap, he was starting to sound like Donut), but it did have a distinct feel to it. Assortments of impressionist paintings hung around the orange-yellowish walls. In the corner, there was a bulletin board filled with pictures of… Wash had to squint to see-- were those…  _ cats? _

They were! Wash saw pictures of orange tabbies and gray british short hairs and brown siameses and oh my god there were so many of them. The corners of his lips turned up as he pictured Donut noticing the bulletin board and immediately knowing he had to tell Wash, because what better person to tell than someone who (shamelessly) owned ten cats? 

Wash felt a tap on his shoulder, and spun around to see the man in question. 

“Yeah?” he asked, noticing the man’s hands were empty. Instead, they shooed at him, gesturing towards a table.  _ Go sit down.  _ Wash nodded. “Oh, okay.” He felt awkward standing up there anyway. 

He picked a table near the window and set down his backpack. He unzipped the top, and pulled out the big textbook required for his psych class, along with an almost-filled notebook and a mechanical pencil. He sighed once he got it all out, and stared at the textbook cover.  _ I really don’t want to do this…  _ he thought. But then he glanced at the bulletin board filled with cats, and thought of  _ his _ cats and how he needed to find  _ some  _ way to feed them all, and he reluctantly flipped open the cover. 

A few minutes later, the man came over with Wash’s coffee and cookie. He set them both on the table. Wash eagerly picked up the cup and took a large sip. The sugary liquid flowed smoothly into his mouth, and somehow it was just the perfect temperature-- not tongue-burning hot, but not cold ethier. This was the real reason the shop had been recommended to him, and rightfully so. Wash sighed in relief. 

“Thank you,” he said to the man, who was now staring at his textbook. Wash set down the cup and glanced between him and the book. “It’s for my psychology class.” he explained. “You know it?” The man nodded, and an expression of curiosity fluttered across his face. Wash watched, fascinated, as the man pulled out a notebook from his back pocket and scribbled something on it. He showed it to Wash. 

_ Took it in high school. Interesting.  _ Wash smiled, a little startled by the man’s interest. 

“Yeah, well, I liked it so much I decided to major in it,” he said. The man jotted something else on his notepad. 

_ Almost majored in it too. Inherited shop instead, hired as a part-time cop.  _ Wash was taken aback. 

“So you  _ are _ the owner of this shop?” The man nodded and wrote again. 

_ I’m Maine.  _ Wash laughed. That would explain the name of the shop-- Coon’s cafe. Wash  _ had _ wondered if it was named after the Maine Coon cat… it looks like that question had been answered. 

“I have two Maine Coons at home,” he said. “They look like that one that’s one your board over there. 

_ How many cats do you have? _

“Ten,” Wash said, a little sheepishly. Most people would laugh at him when he admitted this, but Maine simply raised a questioning eyebrow. “I like cats…” he explained weakly. Maine shrugged, and Wash was suddenly struck by how odd this whole ordeal was. Here he was, in a foreign coffee shop, having a one-sided conversation with a man almost twice the size of him, about what kind of  _ cats  _ he has. He had to push down an insane urge to laugh, and realized he hadn’t introduced himself yet. He stuck out a hand. 

“I’m Wash, by the way. Short for Washington.” Maine took it and shook with a firm, yet gentle, grip. Wash offered him a smile, but just then another person walked in the door, and Maine had to go take their order. 

Wash sipped his Mocha and took a bite of his cookie. This coffee shop isn’t so bad, he decided. Maybe he’ll come back next week. 

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out, he does come back the next week. And the week after that. And the next. And soon, he had come to Coon’s cafe so much that Maine had memorized his order and had it ready for him even before Wash walked in the door. He liked the place, it was peaceful. A nice escape from his normally insane life. Every week, Wash would sit at the table by the window, pull out his textbook, sip on his abnormally sweet coffee, and study for a few hours. Every so often, there would be a noisy group of people that Wash vaguely recognized. After they walked in, half of them would sit in a red colored booth, and the other half would sit in a blue colored booth. At times, they would shout insults at each other across the restaurant-- until Maine shooed them out for disturbing the customers. Other than that, though, there weren’t many distractions. When Wash was unmotivated, he would look through the cats on the wall. And sometimes, on particularly slow days, if he was very lucky, Maine would come over and say hi.

Wash had gradually gotten used to the man’s size and intimidating grunts. At least, he doesn’t jump out of his skin every time the man comes over. Maine had been having to use his notebook less and less to be able to maintain a conversation-- Wash  _ was  _ a psych student after all, and was more perceptive than most. Perceptive about everything, Maine wrote to him once, except maybe himself. 

One day, when Wash was more than a little frustrated with the study material, Maine set down a drink in front of him. Wash looked up, startled. He hadn’t even noticed the man come over. Wash looked at the drink blankly. Why…?  
_Take it._ Maine gestured to him. _On the house,_ he grunted. Or something like that. Wash blinked. 

“Oh…” He wasn’t used to this. “Thanks.” Maine continued to stare at him expectantly, and Wash obediently picked up the cup. He took a sip of it, letting the warmth of the smooth liquid seep into him. He sighed. Everytime he took a drink, he was shocked by how perfect it is. He really should be used to it by now, but the coffee always seemed to present a new flavor every day.

“Thanks,” he said again, and this time he really meant it. Maine seemed to understand, and he nodded, satisfied. Wash glanced at the counter.  _ No customers,  _ a small voice in the back of Wash’s mind said. He glanced at Maine, who was still hovering over his table. Suddenly, a wild thought entered his mind and Wash blurted it out before he was able to stop himself. 

“Want me to teach you something?” Maine blinked. Wash stumbled to explain himself. “I-- I mean, you said you liked psychology… and it helps me to teach it to somebody… and-- um… there’s no customers… so I thought it would be fine…” He trailed off weakly, cursing himself. But he had no need to worry, Maine didn’t need an explanation. He plopped himself down in the seat across from Wash and grunted. Wash nodded, fighting to keep a relieved smile off his face. 

“Okay. Where do you want to start?” 

After that, Wash invited Maine to sit down a lot more. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Carolina, I know what the  _ fucking  _ objective is,” Tex hissed. The woman in question, Carolina, only glared back at her with a ferocity so intense that most would have withered. Not Tex. 

“I’m ordering you to _ stay back,  _ Texas. I’m handling this one,” Carolina growled, gripping her gun. She was about ready to aim it at her supposed  _ partner.  _

“No. You don’t give me orders.” Carolina narrowed her eyes. They didn’t have time for this, she knew that. But she was still ready to tackle Tex to the ground if it came to that. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but a dark voice with a southern drawl interrupted her through the radio. 

“That’s right, she doesn’t give the orders.  _ I  _ do.” The Director. Damn it. Carolina clenched her jaw shut and steeled her eyes, ready for whatever punishment would be given to her. “Texas, you will take lead. Carolina, fall back.” Damn. It. All. 

“Yes sir,” she said reluctantly after a beat of rage-filled silence, and stalked back through the hall she came from. She could see the glint of her badge in the reflection of a window and sighed. Fucking Texas. 

Behind her, she could hear a door come crashing down and the familiar call-- “Police! Hands up!” 

Carolina used to be the one leading the charge. Now look at her. Not even allowed to handle a routine drugs bust. Such bullshit. 

 

* * *

 

“Carolina?” Someone tapped on the door to her office. 

“What?” she snarled, glaring up from her desk. Her gaze softened only slightly when she saw who it was. “York…” she sighed. “What do you need?” 

Her co-worker cautiously walked into the room, and placed something down on her desk. He stepped back and saluted-- but only half-heartedly.

“The report,  _ ma’am, _ ” Carolina sighed again and took the folder. 

“You don’t need to call me that,” she said, filing the report, and turned to the computer. York pulled over a chair and casually sat down. He put his feet up on the desk, but when Carolina glared at him, he quickly removed them. 

“You’re not going to look at it?” he asked, acting hurt. “I put a lot of effort into that report.” Carolina didn’t even glance at him. 

“I’m sure you did,” she quipped. York shrugged. 

“Okay, a lot of half-assed effort,” he amended. When she didn’t reply, he frowned.

“Upset about the bust we ran?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” It was York’s turn to sigh. This is what she always did, he knew. She would stuff her anger down, and blame herself for not being good enough. To Carolina, nothing she ever does is good enough.

“You know, I’m always here if you need me.” He knew she would never willingly come to him for help. It would mean admitting weakness-- something York didn’t think she knew  _ how  _ to do. But it never hurt to try. 

Carolina still didn’t respond, and York took that as his cue to leave. He pushed back his chair and stood up slowly. He waited for her to stop him, even though he knew she wouldn’t. Right now, she just needed to be alone. He got that. He just wished that when she was done with being alone, she would come to him instead of the training room. 

He made it to the doorway before something occurred to him. He paused and looked back at her. 

“Oh, by the way. The Director--” York didn’t miss how she stiffened when the Director’s name was said “-- wanted me to tell you that he found a new recruit. A college kid. His file was emailed to you.” Carolina tapped on the keyboard, and York knew she was pulling up the file right now. Her eyebrows furrowed, an indicator that she was already in the middle of reading it. York smiled at her intense concentration, and closed the office door behind him. 

Carolina scrolled through the file that was given to her. The kid seemed young, but he met the physical, mental and intellectual requirements. He seemed like an able recruit. She read through his list of reasons for recommendation. 

“Works well with animals… red cross certified… shown willingness to help people selflessly…” She paused as she read the last one. “Acquainted with Agent Maine?” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Look out!” The car came screeching to a halt too late-- if it hadn’t been for Wash. Stumbling from his sudden momentum, Wash dragged the oblivious child onto the sidewalk. He held the kid firm in his arms, and didn’t let go until they were safely on the other side of the street. The driver of the car leapt out and ran towards them, shouting apologies and obscenities as he went. A crowd had gathered, and one woman held her phone a little out from her ear, obviously having yanked it away in surprise as Wash and the kid fell onto the sidewalk in front of her. She didn’t move for several seconds, her jaw hanging open loosely. 

A screaming woman with tears streaming from her eyes raced across the street after them (fortunately, all the other cars were driving slowly and cautiously now), reaching for her son. Wash sat up, a little dizzy from the abruptness of it all and the adrenaline that was beginning to wear off. The child had landed on his butt next to Wash and he was crying-- but he was okay. He was alive. The woman sobbed and bent down next to her child, picking him up in her arms and holding him close. 

The driver had just reached them. 

“Holy shit, I am  _ so  _ sorry. He just ran out in front of me and--!” The woman turned her back on him. He looked helplessly around for someone to believe his story. Wash met his eyes briefly and smiled half-heartedly. The driver walked over to him, offering his hand. Wash took it. “You okay, man?” Wash shook out his arms and legs experimentally. 

“Yeah. Nothing’s broken.” The man was visibly relieved. 

“Oh thank god.” After thoroughly examining her child, the woman turned to Wash, tears still rolling down her face. 

“Thank you so much. I owe you.” Wash laughed awkwardly. 

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her. “Really,” he added, seeing the look of disbelief on the woman’s face. 

“Okay…” she said reluctantly, and pulled out her cell phone. She waited for it to ring, and walked away, talking quickly. Wash could still hear a note of panic in her voice. The driver realized he should move his car out of the middle of traffic, and he left as well. Just as quickly as it had formed, the crowd dispersed, and Wash, with nothing else to do, continued on his walk to the Coon Cafe. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Afternoon, Maine.” Wash greeted the cashier as he walked in. He slid his credit card over the counter, and Maine swiped it quickly. But instead of turning around to make Wash’s Mocha, he pulled out his notepad. 

_ Saw what you did. Impressive.  _ Wash scratched his neck self-consciously.

“Oh… you saw that?” Maine nodded. 

_ Do that often?  _ Wash frowned. 

“Do what?” Maine shrugged and scribbled something down. 

_ Save kids. Risk your life. The whole superhero act.  _ Wash huffed. 

“I’m not trying to be a hero. I just saw the kid, saw the car and… reacted.” Maine paused for a second, before writing briefly on his notepad. 

_ Instinct.  _ Wash nodded and glanced back out the window, where he could see cars whizzing by and kids on bikes and people with dogs, all like nothing had happened. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Instinct.” Maine turned around then, and Wash walked over to sit down at his table. 

  
  


Wash groaned as he added the numbers. They were all wrong, all bad. Food, electricity, water, rent, cat food, tuition… it was all too much. Up until today, he had just barely scraped enough to get by each month, but now…

It had been a bad day at work. He used to be a lifeguard at the pool-- not a normally competitive environment, right? But today he had been let go. Budget cuts, they said. Bullshit. Wash had been the only staff member that had been cut, and his pay wasn’t exactly A-grade. He wasn’t even given a heads-up, or a transition period or anything. Nope. It was just ‘take your stuff and go’. So now, he had exactly two days to find some way to raise money for his rent. 

Wash groaned again for good measure and laid his head on the table. Not to mention he had a calculus test tomorrow, and a literature paper due.  _ Fuck _ everything. 

Just when he needed it most, a cup was placed on the table next to him. Wash lifted his head slightly and offered a smile to Maine. He sighed and sat up, reaching for the drink. Without an invitation this time, Maine sat in the seat across from him. He laid down a packet between the two of them and pulled out his notebook. 

_ I’ve been told to offer you a job, if you wanted.  _ Hold on... what?  _ My boss, from my other job, wants to recruit you.  _ Wash frowned. 

“Recruit me? For what?” 

_ Blood Gulch Police Department.  _ Wash sighed. 

“The police? Your boss has the wrong person.” Maine frowned and quickly scribbled something down. 

_ You’re not interested?  _ Wash hesitated, considering the offer. On one hand, it would be a lot of hours, a lot of work and it probably wasn’t his true calling. On the other… he did have ten cats that needed to be fed everyday. He huffed and folded his arms. 

“How much does it pay?” 

_ $72,000.  _ Wash straightened up.  _ Now _ he was interested. 

“A year?” he asked in disbelief. Maine nodded and Wash glanced at him suspiciously. Maine wouldn’t try to trick him, but the offer was too good to be true. “And that’s the starting pay?” Maine nodded again. Wash sighed, leaning forward to rub his temples. It seemed like he had no choice. 

“Okay,” he said, gathering himself. “Okay. If I were interested, what would I do?” Maine started writing immediately. 

_ After I close today, I can take you with me to the station. You’ll be able to meet the Director then.  _ Wash frowned. 

“The Director?” he asked.  _ That’s what we call the chief.  _ Wash nodded slowly. “Okay. And we’ll do the interview then?” Maine nodded in confirmation. “Okay then,” Wash said finally.  “Sounds like a deal.” Maine grunted, and Wash offered him a weak smile. “Thanks.” Maine started to nod, but paused mid-way. 

_ Something I forgot. There is a chance you’ll eventually be assigned to the K-9 unit. Are you okay with that?  _ Wash sighed. He preferred cats… but he could handle dogs. 

“Yeah, if it can’t be helped.” He was about to offer that Maine stay some more and talk, but just then customer walked through the door. Maine grunted, and stood up. Wash watched him go in disbelief at his incredible stroke of luck. A high-paying job, on the exact same day he had lost his previous one.  _ Looks like I’ll be able to pay my rent after all.  _

 

* * *

 

“Hey Maine,” York said, leaning against the counter tiredly. The man grunted. “Do you have anything with alcohol in it?” He was given a reproachful look, and he sighed. “Fine. Then surprise me.” Maine shrugged and held out his hand. 

“Do I get a discount?” York joked, handing over his credit card. He took the lack of response as the answer to his question. 

“So,” he started as Maine turned to go make… whatever he was making. “I heard you recruited somebody today.” The man nodded, pouring a liquid into some big machine. “Who is it, can I ask?” Maine shut to the lid to the machine and pulled out his notepad. 

_ A college kid. Comes here a lot. Name’s Wash.  _

“Wash, huh?” York said. “That’s an unusual name.” When Maine didn’t reply, York leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. 

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Maine glanced at him, stirring in something to the machine. “What do you think about Tex?” The man shrugged, pausing to scribble something down. 

_ She’s strong. Good in the field. Other than that, I don’t really care.  _ York whistled. 

“It’s just all business with you, isn’t it?” Maine didn’t respond. “Carolina’s pretty pissed. Tex hasn’t even been here a week, and she’s already being pulled off the field.” Maine shrugged. 

_ I don’t blame her.  _ York nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. 

“So anyway,” he started, snapping back to reality as Maine came over to hand him his drink. “This new recruit. Is he cute?” Maine gave him a look and waved his hands, shooing him away. York laughed and turned around. 

“Alright, alright, I get it. But I am totally gonna make a killing off the betting pool.” 

 

* * *

 

 

WASH: Hey, just wanted to say thanks again for the job offer. You totally saved me.

MAINE: No problem. Just doing my job. 

WASH: So what’s it like? Is being a police man hard?

MAINE: At first, I guess. You’ll get the hang of it pretty quickly. 

WASH: … 

WASH: And if I don’t? 

MAINE: Well, you’re always welcome to come work at Coon’s Cafe.

WASH: Haha, can you match 72,000? 

MAINE: No promises. 

MAINE: But I’ll throw in a free chocolate chip cookie. 

WASH: Funny, let me think about it. 

MAINE: Not too long, positions are filling quickly. 

WASH: Haha 

WASH: Gtg now. Studying. :/ 

MAINE: Good luck. 

WASH: Thanks. See you tomorrow. 

MAINE: Bye. 


	2. Intro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash gets introduced to his new, and frankly astounding, environment.

“David Washington? Come in.” Wash hovered near the door of the station, hesitantly staying close to Maine. A  woman who sat at a desk in the middle of the lobby, motioned to him, smiling. Immediately awestruck, he stepped forward and looked around at the enormous station-- which was much fancier than he had envisioned it. As he glanced at the spotless floors, the flat screen TVs hanging on the wall, the modern design with fountains and plants and mirrors, all he could think was that this seemed more like a hospital than a police station. Who knew the police department would have this much funding? He stood marveling for so long in front of the doors that Maine had to nudge his shoulder as he passed Wash, snapping him out of his reverie. 

“What? Oh. Right. Hi,” he stuttered, and reluctantly headed over to the table. The woman stood up, holding out a manicured hand. She wore a neat gray suit and her black hair was tightly pulled back. 

“Hello, and welcome to the Blood Gulch Police Station. I’m Fillis, the station secretary. It’s very nice to meet you,” she said, offering a kind and genuine smile-- but it did little to ease his nerves. 

“Um, it’s nice to meet you too. I’m Wash.” He shook her hand, and she gestured behind her. 

“Follow me, I’ll take you to the Director.” Wash glanced at Maine, who had started down a separate hallway. Wash was a little uncomfortable with being left alone, but he knew that Maine probably had work to do, so he went with Fillis. 

She led him down a series of hallways, and Wash was endlessly surprised at just how big the place was. Fillis pointed out rooms and offices as she went, giving Wash the full tour. 

“This is the break room-- you’ll get to know that room very well,” she said, pointing to a closed wooden door. “And that’s the training room. You’ll be spending a lot  _ more _ time in there.” She took Wash into a smaller room that was connected to the training arena. One of the walls was comprised of big glass panels, and Wash could see into the other room.

Two similar-looking people were sparring in the middle of the floor. The girl was crouched in a defensive stance, while the guy stood relaxed and smiling pleasantly on the other side of the room. As Wash watched, the girl yelled and charged wildly at the guy. Both went down in a tangle of fists, rolling over each other. After a bit of struggling, the guy landed on top, and held the girl’s fists down. But she kicked him in the back, and he toppled over again. Wash gulped. He hoped he didn’t have to fight either of them-- he took karate for a few years back in highschool, but that was as far as his fighting experience went. 

“Ah, that’s Agents North and South Dakota,” Fillis explained. “The sibling duo. They’re always an interesting pair.” That much was obvious already. The two were fighting so intensely, that Wash couldn’t tell if they were just sparring or actually trying to kill each other. 

“Interesting,” he echoed, sincerely hoping that not all of the others were like this. 

He was not that lucky. 

Fillis led him past another room-- “The weapons room,” she said. “This is where you’ll practice fighting with and against arms.” Wash glanced in, and saw two more people, a shorter girl and a tall man with a jet black mustache, firing off rounds at human-shaped targets. A buzzer sounded, and the two casually placed their guns on a rack behind them. The targets moved closer for them to see and-- Wash realized with a gulp-- neither had missed even a single shot. 

“Oh man…” he said weakly. Fillis kept walking. 

Finally, they got to a set of double doors. Wash stopped in front of them, craning his head back to see the top. He sighed. This was definitely the Director’s office. All of it was so… intimidating. Maybe a little pretentious. If a set of doors could scare the shit out of anyone, it was this set of doors right here. Wash took a step back. Yeah. This was  _ not _ the job for him. 

“Is the Director in his office?” Fillis addressed a man leaning back in a chair near the door. He was reading a magazine.

“Yep,” he said, glancing up. Immediately, he leaned forward and lowered the magazine. He stared at Wash. “Is this the rookie?” Wash flushed. 

“Yes. David Washington,” Fyllis introduced him. The man whistled. 

“Washington, huh? Man that’s just unlucky. I thought it was bad enough getting stuck with a state for a  _ code  _ name.” Wash didn’t know if it was possible to get any redder, but somehow, he did it. 

“I…,” he trailed off. The man strolled over to him, hands on his hips. After sizing Wash up, he stuck out a hand. 

“Name’s York. At least, that’s what you’ll be calling me, since we’ll probably be in the same unit.” He turned to the secretary.

“The Director is in there, but so are Tex and Carolina.” He glanced at Wash. “They’re the heads of our unit,” he added for his benefit. Wash nodded, grateful for the clarification, but Fillis frowned at the information. 

“I see. Thank you, York.” 

“No problem,” York turned and eased back into his chair, opening the magazine to where he left off. Fillis led Wash closer to the door, and he could just barely hear shouting from the inside. The secretary, undeterred, rapped on the door. The shouting ceased. 

“David Washington, here to see you sir!” she said loudly. They waited for a minute, then heard footsteps near the door. It was thrown open, and Wash was greeted with a woman’s scowling face. She glanced at Wash, then turned and stomped back into the room. Fillis gestured into the room. Wash glanced at York, who lowered his magazine and mouthed ‘ _ good luck.’  _ Wash took a hesitant step into the room, and the door slammed shut behind him. 

 

“Hello, David.” The Director was a hard man with a southern accent. He had bright green eyes that pierced Wash’s flesh and extracted his very thoughts. The Director sat up perfectly straight, almost as if he had a ruler taped to his back, and had his hands folded on top of his desk, like some evil movie villain. How one man could seem so powerful when seated behind a desk, Wash didn’t know. But this man was doing it. 

In front of the desk, two women stood glowering at each other. One was blonde haired and stood in a defiant stance, her hands on her hips. The other was red-haired. Her arms were folded angrily, and her foot tapped the floor impatiently. They were laser-focused on each other, not even taking notice of him-- for which Wash was glad. He got the feeling that both of them could snap him in half like a toothpick with their pinky finger.

“Have a seat,” the Director invited, and Wash nearly snorted. Get in the middle of two half-shark, half-jaguar women that looked like they wanted to tear out each other’s throats? No way. But out of everyone in the room, Wash could just tell that the Director was the most dangerous, so he walked forward cautiously and sat down in a chair in front of the desk. Once he was settled, the Director gestured to the red-head. 

“This is Agent Carolina. She and Agent Texas--” He pointed to the blonde “-- are the heads of the unit you will be assigned to. You will be spending a lot of time together, so get to know each other well.” Wash gulped. He did  _ not  _ want to spend time with them any more than he had to, but it seemed like he had no choice if he wanted to be able to pay his rent. Speaking of… He turned to the Director. 

“Wait, so I’ve got the job then?” he asked. The Director nodded. “But you didn’t even interview me,” Wash protested. “What exactly am I supposed to do?” 

“You will be placed in a unit. You will be given an orientation, training and then assigned patrol hours. You will be expected to answer calls, and go where you are told. On occasion, you will be conducting investigations. Understand?” Wash nodded, taken aback at the succinctness of the explanation. But there was still so much he didn’t know.

“Sir,” he started. The Director raised an eyebrow. “I’m not… I don’t think I’m qualified for this position. I’ve never done anything like this before.” The Director held up a hand.   
“Don’t worry, Agent Washington. You will be trained by our best officers. By the time you go out into the field, I can assure you, you will be ready.” Wash nodded reluctantly. He had no doubts that the Director was right.

“Okay…” The Director nodded once, a very final movement. 

“Agent Carolina, get him a uniform and introduce him to the rest of the unit. Get him settled before night hours.” Carolina saluted. 

“Sir.” 

“Agent Texas, stay in my office. I have a few more things to discuss with you.” 

“Yes sir.” Carolina stalked toward the door, her shoulders hunched with unresolved anger. She didn’t look back at Wash, who scrambled out of his chair to follow her. 

 

York practically leapt out of his chair when they walked out of the office. 

“Carolina!” he said, seeming more eager to see her than Wash thought he meant to. “How’d it go?” Wash almost felt bad for the guy when Carolina brushed by like she didn’t even see him. He saw a flash of disappointment and hurt on York’s face, and almost stopped to talk with him-- but then he remembered Carolina’s terrifying expression in the office. He decided he’d rather live. York can deal with a bit of rejection. 

“Gather all the Freelancer’s. I want them to meet the new guy,” she tossed over her shoulder distractedly. York immediately saluted, hoping to at least get a glance from her.

“Yes boss!” he said, but Wash and Carolina were already around the corner. 

 

By the time Carolina had measured Wash for a uniform, and shown him to the break room, everyone was already there. She ushered Wash inside, and shut the door behind them. He looked around the room, a little overwhelmed by all the different faces-- but a little relief came when he saw Maine, squished in the corner of the too small room. 

“Attention!” Carolina shouted. Everyone froze mid-chatter and snapped into a salute. Wash automatically straightened as well. “Everybody, this is Agent Washington--” 

“Uh, it’s Wash, actually…,” he amended, but trailed off when she glared at him. 

“Washington, this is your new unit. Unit Freelancer.” Wash looked at all of the faces. They were mostly nonchalant, but a few glared at him. He shifted uncomfortably when a blonde haired woman shot him a particularly nasty look. “Okay. Now for introductions. You know the drill.” 

There was some muttering and some movement, and soon the unit had arranged themselves in a line. One by one, each stepped forward and introduced themselves. 

York stepped forward first. 

“I’m York… but you already knew that. Nice seeing ya again.” Wash nodded. It seemed like York had recovered from Carolina’s previous rebuff, and was now glancing at her more than Wash. He only reluctantly moved back, and another man stepped up. He was bigger than York, and had a thick black mustache. He spoke with a heavy british accent. 

“Agent Wyoming, at your service. Pleasure to meet you, chap.” Wyoming seemed okay enough… but Wash thought he seemed a little pretentious and, at the very least, rather full of himself. The man next to him stepped forward. Wash recognized him as one of the siblings in the training room. He had blonde hair, and smiled at Wash-- a kind and genuine smile, like Fillis’. Wash felt a little more at ease. 

“I’m North Dakota. Call me North. It’s nice to meet you.” He gestured at the blonde woman with purple highlights who had been glaring at Wash. “That’s my sister, South Dakota.” The girl leaned forward with a scowl. 

“I can  _ fucking _ introduce myself, North.” She snapped. North raised his hands in surrender. 

“Sorry. My bad,” he apologized, giving Wash a ‘what-can-you-do?’ smile, and backed up. Wash’s halfheartedly smiled back, but as his eyes flicked to the next person in line, it settled into a genuine one. He felt immediately at ease. Warm cookies and sweet coffee flashed in his mind. Maine. 

The man nodded at him, and grunted. Wash grinned, happy to see his friend. It was odd, Wash had never seen Maine outside the cafe. But he fit in well, despite his size and menacing demeanor. The rest of the unit looked comfortable around him, like they trusted him. A little tension eased off of Wash’s shoulders. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

But then South Dakota stepped forward and crossed her arms. Her top lip curled into a sneer as she glared down at Wash, who had the sudden urge to back out of the room. She chomped on a piece of gum in her mouth, clearly meaning to intimidate him. It worked. After several seconds of her looking him over, she finally spoke. 

“South,” she said simply by way of introduction, and shot a glare at her brother before reluctantly stepping back in line. Eager to move past South, Wash turned to the person at the end.

A shorter girl, with equally short hair brushed to the side, stepped forward. She sized up  Wash, but it was more with a benign curiosity than what the Director or South had looked at him with. She seemed on her guard, but still open. Not friendly, but still respectful. Wash got the sense he could trust her. 

“I’m CT. Short for Connecticut.” Wash thought she looked vaguely familiar. He nodded at her in acknowledgement, and committed her name to memory. She would be a good person to make friends with in this crazy place. Once CT-- CT… Wash didn’t think that name fit her. She looked more like a Connie… but it probably wasn’t his place to give nicknames on his first day on the job. Once CT stepped back, Carolina cleared her throat. 

“Next, we typically choose a name for the recruit, but…” York interrupted her, giving Wash that pitying look again. 

“Poor bastard already has a state name.” Carolina nodded. Wash sighed. His name was actually based on George Washington-- who came before the state. But he figured it was useless to tell them that. North shrugged. 

“Washington it is,” he concluded definitely, and suddenly every eye was on Wash. He flushed. “Welcome to the unit.” 

“Welcome to the unit!” the agents echoed, and though Wash was regarded with varying expressions of wariness, hesitation, and friendliness, he still felt a general sense of acceptance. He allowed himself a small smile, which only grew wider as he met Maine’s eyes. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad, after all. 

 

* * *

 

 

“No. Way. You’re a  _ police officer?  _ Do you get to wear the uniform? With the short shorts? Oh, I’m so jealous. I’d look so  _ good _ in that uniform.” Wash laughed awkwardly as Donut clapped his hands together. 

“No, actually. We just have regular pants.” Donut’s smile lowered. 

“What about crop tops?” Wash shook his head. 

“No.” Donut gasped and stood up. 

“Well we’ll have to fix that!” As though he were going to march over to the station right now with a pair of scissors. Wash grabbed his shirt before he could get out the door though, because, knowing Donut, he really  _ would  _ march over to the station and demand a change in uniform. 

“I think the uniforms are fine just the way they are,” Wash said desperately, pulling Donut down again. He pouted. 

“Of course you would, you don’t know any better.” Wash opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. That’s not exactly something he  _ wanted _ to protest. Donut kept talking anyway. “At least promise to undo the first few buttons of your shirt then.” Wash shook his head. 

“I’m not making any promises. Now can we  _ please  _ get back to this?” He motioned to the papers spread out on the floor before them. Donut sighed. 

“Fine…,” he groaned, and picked up a few papers, skimming through them. “Which ones do you have questions on?” 

“All of them,” Wash said helplessly. Calculus was a foreign to him as Spanish, and he had a test tomorrow. He knew Donut was, somehow, top in his class, so Wash called him to ask for help. After Wash managed to persuade Donut that,  _ no, they didn’t need to break out his fancy wine,  _ he finally allowed Wash to come over. Donut shook his head and  _ tsked.  _

“All of them? Come on Wash, you really need to cram it all in before tomorrow, otherwise you’ll be in way too deep.” Wash sighed. Innuendos aside, Donut was right. Wash needed a good grade on the test, but he didn’t even know where to begin. He was lucky Donut knew what he was doing, but Wash told himself that he shouldn’t make a habit of this. He didn’t want to have to depend on others to do his work for him. Donut set down a paper and pointed to a question. 

“I guess we can start there. Now, this is what you need to solve for. Assuming that ‘x’ equals twenty three…” 

 

* * *

 

 

Wash slipped on his jacket and checked the time. It was really late, and he felt guilty for making Donut stay up to help him. 

“Thanks Donut. How can I repay you?” Donut stood behind him (at some point, he had changed into his silk--  _ lightish red-- _ pajamas) and waved a hand. 

“No need, it’s no problem. Really!” He yawned and, despite his cheerful manner, Wash could tell he was exhausted. Another wave of guilt washed over him, but Wash nodded reluctantly and opened the front door. He was about to leave when Donut added: “Although, I suppose you could tell me about Maine sometime.” Wash froze. He turned back to Donut. 

“How do you know Maine?” Donut laughed. 

“Don’t you remember? I’m the one who told you to go to that cafe, silly!” Wash frowned, trying to remember. It seemed like ages since he had first walked into Coon’s cafe. 

“You did?” Donut nodded and yawned again. 

“Yeah! Remember, I told you that the decorating was awful-- it has no  _ theme _ \-- but the coffee was really good.” Wash shook his head, only vague recollections stirred in his mind.     “Anyways, I heard that you and Maine really hit it off! I’ll be excited to see how this relationship progresses.” Wash gaped at him, at a loss for words. 

“I don’t…  _ hit it off? _ Who told you that?” Donut only smiled at him. “Wait, did you set me up with a date?!” His voice was increasing in pitch now, something it only did when he was really agitated. But the whole notion was so  _ ridiculous,  _ and Wash was so  _ tired… _ There were too many things to argue. “Wait! Maine and I aren’t… we’re not--!” 

“Good night Wash!” Donut said, leaning forward, and giving Wash a gentle push out the door. 

“Wait! Donut!” But Donut had closed the door, leaving Wash to splutter on his front porch. “Donut!” The porch light turned off, and the house plunged into darkness. 

Left with no other option, Wash stomped down the porch steps, fuming. He and Maine didn’t  _ hit it off.  _ They weren’t a  _ thing.  _ They were just friends. Friends. That’s it. This was just another one of Donut’s silly delusions, that’s all. He’ll realize soon that he’s wrong, that it was all his imagination. Wash just hoped that it didn’t take him too long to stop his silly game. 

Stupid  _ Donut.  _

 

* * *

 

_ NUMBER BLOCKED _

XXXX: Status report? 

XXXXX: It’s done. No witnesses. 

XXXX: Good. I have another target for you. Gabriel Smith. 

XXXXX: Do I get to use my torch this time? 

XXXX: No. Keep interaction to a minimum. 

XXXXX: Yes sir. And of the Freelancers? 

XXXX: They don’t matter. They are in the dark.

XXXXX: But I heard they got a new Agent… 

XXXX: Stay on task. 

XXXXX: Yes sir. 

XXXX: Don’t fail me, SF.

XXXXX: I won’t sir. You can count on it. 


	3. Old Times, New Times

“An assignment? Already?” Carolina glanced up at Wash from her computer. 

“Don’t think you can handle it?” she asked, frowning. Wash shook his head. 

“No, I just… I only got here a few days ago and I- I… haven’t had any  _ training.  _ What if one of them is armed?” Carolina squinted briefly at a file that was on her desk, and sighed when she read the mission objective. 

“Don’t worry, Wash. You are more than capable of handling this.”

“But--!” 

“ _ But _ , if you are too uncomfortable about it, you can always ask Agent Maine to go with you.” Wash fell silent at the mention of his friend. On one hand, he needed the help, and it would be nice to go with a familiar face. On the other hand...Wash’s face turned red as he remembered the conversation with Donut a few days ago. He knew that there was no way to keep a straight face around Maine, and that the other man would see right through him. So Wash steeled himself, and shook his head. 

“No.” Carolina raised an eyebrow. “No, that won’t be necessary.” After a beat of silence, in which Wash could hear the blood rushing to his face, Carolina nodded. 

“Okay then. Get going.” Wash saluted clumsily. 

“Yes boss.”

 

* * *

 

  
  


_ Knock knock knock.  _ Wash pounded on the door for the eighth time and waited, but there was no reply. He sighed, and checked again to make sure he was at the right address. He was.  _ Knock knock knock. _

“Hello?” He called, and after a pause, “Police!” 

Still nothing. Wash groaned and debated what to do. He could wait until they got home, or he could go back to the station and tell Carolina that he hadn’t even been able to complete his first objective, let alone his first mission… 

Wash knocked again, and finally he heard a loud groan from inside. A window on the second floor slid open. Wash tensed and stepped back-- were they going to shoot at him?-- but he only heard the nasally voice of a teenager. 

“Hey! Asshole!” A girl’s head popped out the window, her hair tangled and messy, and her eyes were bloodshot. “Wouldja quiet down? Some people are trying to sleep!” Wash frowned, at a loss for words. He had expected thugs, mercenaries. He’d asked York about the people in the file, and York had patted his shoulder sympathetically. ‘ _ I wish you the best of luck. You’ll need it,’  _ he had said. Wash bet the guy was laughing his ass off back at the police station right now.

“Uh, is this the Grif residence? I’m here to talk about--” 

“You can’t prove that I did it!” The girl shouted, and added “CAHP” for good measure. Wash spluttered. 

“What? No it’s just-- I’m not… Well, I mean I  _ am,  _ but… I--” He cleared his throat and gathered himself. “Are you Dexter Grif?” The girl paused. After a beat, she laughed. 

“Ohhh, you’re looking for my brother. Yeah, he bailed on me last night. He’s over at a friends house.” Wash blinked. 

“Your brother?” 

“Uh,  _ yeah.  _ Duh. I’m not a guy. Usually.” Wash nodded and fumbled for a notepad. 

“Right. Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Can you give me the address?” 

“What, and rat out my brother to a  _ cahp?!”  _ Wash groaned. He was going to get a headache from the girl’s sporadic shouting. 

“Look, I just need to talk to him. I’m not arresting anybody today. Just…” He sighed when the girl glared at him suspiciously. “Just tell me where I can find him, okay?” To his immense relief, the girl seemed to consider the offer. At least, she didn’t slam the window shut. 

“He’s across the street. At Simmons’ place.” Wash glanced to where she was pointing. It was a larger house, tan, with maroon shutters. He looked up to the top window, and could have sworn he saw two faces in the window, but before he could tell, the curtains were yanked shut. Wash frowned. That had to be it. 

“Okay. Thanks... “ He turned back to the window, but it had been shut. From inside the house, he could hear loud beats of music that pounded in time to his forming headache. Wash sighed. This was going to be a long day. 

 

* * *

 

“Dammit!” Grif threw down the controller and cursed. The screen in front of him blinked, the words ‘You won!’ flashing across it. 

“What? What’s the matter?” Simmons asked from his desk and glanced over at the TV. “You won, didn’t you?” Grif sighed and reached his hand inside a chip bag, crunching on a few crumbs. Simmons winced as he grabbed the controller again with a greasy hand. 

“Yeah, but that means I have to go onto the next round.” 

“So?” Simmons asked, confused. “That’s a good thing.” Grif took a bite of another chip. 

“Nah, it actually means that there’ll be harder guys to fight this time. Too much effort.” Simmons exhaled heavily and turned back to his homework. He tapped a pencil on the desk, focusing on a particularly taxing question. When Grif groaned again at the start of the next round, he absent-mindedly admonished him.

“You’re so fucking lazy.” Grif threw a chip at him. Simmons spun around, irritated. 

“Hey!” he protested, but then he saw something out of the corner of his eye. “Hey…” Through the window, he saw Kaikaina Grif leaning out the window, shouting at a policeman. “Grif? I think there’s a cop at your house.” 

“What?!” Grif shrieked, and he moved to the window faster than Simmons thought possible. “Goddamn it, I  _ told  _ Kai not to go embarrassing the family.” As they watched, Grif’s sister pointed towards Simmons’ house, and slammed the window shut. 

“Actually, I think he’s looking for  _ you.”  _ Simmons said. Following Kai’s finger, the cop also turned to look at them. Out of instinct, Grif reached out and yanked the curtains shut. 

“Goddamn it,” he cursed again, and started out of the bedroom. 

“Wait! Where are you going?” Simmons shouted, and followed him. But Grif ignored him, instead stomping down the stairs to the front door. He flung it open as soon as he got there, startling the police officer, whose hand was raised in mid-knock. 

“Um. Hi. Is there a Dexter Grif here?” The cop said, looking Grif up and down. 

“You can’t prove that I did it.” Grif said quickly, as Simmons came up behind him. 

“Uh… Hi, officer. Is there a problem?” Simmons said, professionally. Grif gaped at him. 

“How can you be so calm? I want to know why this guy interrogated my sister to find me!” 

“I didn’t  _ interrogate  _ her. I shouted at her through a window,” the cop said defensively. Grif shook his head and sighed. 

“You hear that, Simmons? These new interrogation techniques. Man. Don’t get me started on police brutality today.” 

“What?!” the cop screeched. “Hang on! I wasn’t interrogating anybody! I’m looking for--” 

“I’ll never tell you anything!” Grif shouted, and slammed the door shut in his choleric face.

“Grif!” Simmons complained. “That was a police officer!” Grif shrugged. 

“I know, but I’ve always wanted to say that. Sounds all cool and tough. Total maverick style.” 

“But--!”  _ Knock knock knock. _

“Police! Open up!” A muffled shout came from the other side of the door. Simmons looked at Grif desperately. 

“Grif! You could be in trouble  _ with the law!  _ They might give you extra time for resisting arrest!” Grif snorted and waved him off. 

“Oh please. You know me, doing illegal shit takes too much effort. They’ve probably got the wrong guy.” Simmons groaned, and his hand was starting to twitch at the officer’s insistent knocking.

“ _ Grif.”  _ he said, glaring at him. Grif looked at Simmons’ solemn face and trembling hand, and sighed. 

“Okay, okay. Fine.” He grabbed the door handle and yanked the door open. Again, the cop was frozen mind-knock, his face turning an un-godly shade of red. “What do you want?” Grif demanded irritably. The cop sighed and resisted the urge to slam his head against a wall. 

“I want. To see. Dexter Grif,” he said slowly, as if talking to an idiot. Which, Simmons had to admit, he was. “Is he here?”

“Uh, yeah dude. I’m right here.” Grif says, sounding equally exasperated. “What, are you blind?” 

“Christ,” muttered the cop. “Look, I’m just here to ask you some questions about the night of August 5th. Can you tell me what you were doing that night?” Grif rolled his eyes. 

“Uh, how about laying on my couch with the pizza, and binge watching horror movies?” 

“Grif!” Simmons complained. “That was the night we were supposed to be studying for a huge Chemistry test together!” Grif rolled his eyes as the cop watched them fight, mystified. 

“Yeah, you’ll have to excuse me if that doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.” 

“So… you weren’t at Valhalla Bank that night?” the cop interjected, before Simmons could argue back, scribbling something down on his notepad. 

“The bank? Dude, does it look like I have enough money to go to the bank?” The cop sighed and rubbed his temple. Grif felt a little proud as he realized he had succeeded in giving the cop a headache. 

“Guess not,” he muttered, and pulled out the file again. “Also, do you know where I can find a... “ He squinted. “Richard Simmons?” 

“Nope.” Grif said quickly. Simmons elbowed him. 

“Uh, that’s me actually.” The cop glanced up. 

“Oh, okay. Were  _ you  _ at the bank on the night of August 5th?” 

“No sir. Like I said, I was at a study session with some of my friends.” Simmons glared very pointedly at Grif, who just ignored it. The cop sighed. 

“Alright. Thanks for your…” He seemed at a loss for the right word. “...  _ assistance _ .” Grif pulled a bag of potato chips out of nowhere, and crunched on one. 

“You gonna go to the Blues next?” The cop was turned halfway towards the street, obviously wanting to leave as soon as possible. 

“The... what?” he asked wearily. 

“The Blues.” Grif repeated, like it was obvious. The cop glanced helplessly at Simmons for an explanation.

“They’re our other friends. We call them the Blues, and we’re the Reds.” The cop frowned. 

“But… why?” Simmons shrugged. 

“Mostly because we like to go to this one cafe, and we sit in the red seats while they sit in the blue seats.” The cop narrowed his eyes, realization dawning on him. 

“Coon’s cafe?” he asked. Grif coughed, choking on a chip (“So what, you’re stalking us now?” he muttered). Simmons elbowed him and nodded.

“Yeah. How’d you know that?” The cop sighed. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Seeing Grif open his mouth to protest, he rushed on. “Do you know where I can find these… Blues?” Simmons nodded. 

“They’re probably at the park or something. They hang out there a lot.” The cop jotted that down in his notebook and flipped it shut. 

“Thanks.” He politely nodded at each of them, then turned and practically sprinted down the porch steps before they could stop him again. Grif and Simmons exchanged glances. 

“Do you think we should warn the Blues that we just sent a cop their way?” Simmons asked. Grif didn’t even think about it, simply popping another chip in his mouth. 

“Nah,” he said through the food, and turned to go back inside. Simmons sighed, and followed Grif in, shutting the door behind him. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey Caboose! Go long!” Church whipped his hand over his head, hurling the tiny baseball so fast and so far that Tucker thought he might have broken the sound barrier. 

“Okay!” Caboose shouted eagerly, and ran out to the middle of the field with his baseball glove. But the ball sailed over his head, and deep into the woods behind them. “I got it!” Caboose shouted, sprinting backwards, his arm still comically outstretched. A moment later, he disappeared into the dark woods. Church sighed as soon as he vanished from sight and plopped down on the bench next to Tucker. 

“Think that’ll keep him long?” Tucker asked. Church shook his head. 

“Nah. It’s Caboose. No way.” Tucker nodded. Church was right, their friend had an unnatural talent for finding baseballs… like a dog. He turned to Church and rested his elbows on his knees. 

“So. What is it this time?” Church sighed and shifted in his seat. 

“Tex kicked me out again.” 

“Again?! Dude, you two got some problems.” 

“Shut up Tucker.” Church snapped. Tucker rolled his eyes. 

“All I’m saying, is that you better figure this out, or save up to get another apartment. I am  _ not  _ hosting sleepovers every weekend.” 

“Hey, it’s not my fault Caboose found out I was staying over last time!” Church protested. Tucker stared at him. 

“It’s totally your fault! You asked me  _ right in front of him.”  _ Church grumbled and leaned back into the bench. 

“Whatever.” 

“Hey guys!” A shout came from the edge of the field. Tucker groaned. Speak of the devil. “I found the ball!” 

Waving his trophy happily above his head, Caboose emerged from the woods. Tucker elbowed Church as he saw another shape form behind Caboose.

“I also found Texas!” Caboose shouted as they drew nearer. Church shot up, panicked. 

“Holy shit!” He screeched, turning, lifting himself over the back of the bench. 

“Dude, what are you doing?” Tucker asked, craning his neck to look at him. He was crouched down behind Tucker, peeking nervously over the top of the bench. When he got a glance of Tex, he made a strangled noise and dropped back down. Tucker stifled a laugh. 

“It’s not fucking funny Tucker!” Church hissed. 

“It is a little,” Tucker admitted. Just then Caboose and Tex reached the bench. 

“Heeyy Tucker.” Tex said, her voice drawn out in sarcastic obliviousness. “Say, do you know where Church is? I’d really like to talk to him.” Tucker snickered. 

“Uh, nope. No Church here,” he managed between snorts. Church whacked the back of his head. Tex placed her hands on her hips, and her voice was falsely smooth, like talking to a child.   
“Gee. I wonder where he is. I suppose I’ll just walk over here and wait for him.” She ambled over near the back of the bench. Like a bunny when the wolf gets too close, Church shot up, and ran out on the other side of the bench. Tex chased after him, while Tucker cheered. 

“Yea--  _ heah _ ! Get ‘im Tex!” She chased the rabbit across the field. 

“Yeah, I found the ball,” Caboose mused. “It was very far in the woods and-- Hey! Where’s Church?” Tucker whooped as Church turned quickly, and skidded underneath Tex’s outstretched hand. Tex, instead of turning, slowed a little, then reach her arms above her head and launched herself backwards. 

“Man, I should get some popcorn,” Tucker said as Tex executed a perfect back handspring and landed right in front of Church. Church shrieked, and ducked to the side. He only managed to make it a few yards before Tex caught up with him again. “She’s like the fucking terminator.” 

“Yeah,” Caboose agreed, as he turned and sat next to Tucker. “She is scary.” Tex had grabbed Church by the back of his shirt, yanking him to a stop. Tucker was just about to shout at her to ‘Get it over with!’, when a person stepped in front of him. 

“Aw come on, I wanna watch this!” Tucker complained, leaning around the person, who cleared his throat. 

“Excuse me,” he said. His voice was professional enough to make Tucker glance up. Eye’s wide, he took in the black uniform and badge. 

“Holy shit, you’re a cop? You can’t prove it was me!” Tucker said immediately. The officer threw up his hands. 

“Why does everybody say that?!” he demanded. “No. I’m not here to arrest you, I just--” Caboose interrupted. 

“Tucker did it!” 

“What?! Okay  _ Caboose _ , just rat me out like that. Asshole.” Tucker glared at his “friend” and folded his arms. The cop sighed and pulled out a notepad. 

“Let’s just get this over with. Are you Lavernius Tucker? I’d like to ask where you were on the night of--” 

“I got him!” Tex shouted triumphantly from the middle of the field. She was walking towards the bench, dragging a defeated Church behind her. The cop stiffened and turned around slowly as she approached. 

“Boss,” he said tersely. Tex dropped Church down on the bench, where he got sympathetic looks from Tucker and Caboose, and turned to the cop. 

“Hey Wash. You on assignment? How’s it going?” The cop sighed. 

“It’s been better,” he admitted and handed her the case file. She skimmed it over real quick before laughing and handing it back to him. 

“That’s rough. You’ve talked to the Reds already?” 

“Yes. Er, just Dexter Grif and Richard Simmons.” 

“And?”  
“Nothing.” Tex nodded and asked for his notepad. Tucker watched their conversation, noting how uncomfortable the male cop looked in front of Tex. How he shifted when she addressed him directly and moved like he was ready to run at any time. 

“Holy shit dude.” Tucker said. Both cops stopped mid-conversation to look at him. He should be intimidated, but instead, Tucker was about to crack up laughing. “You’re afraid of Tex.” Church snorted as the male cop reddened and refused to look at his boss. 

“Can you blame him?” Church muttered. The cop fumbled to put his notebook away and cleared his throat. 

“ _ Anyways, _ I just need to ask you three where you were on the night of August 5th,” he said, trying to regain his posture. “And then I’m going to get a drink,” he mumbled. Tex glanced from him to Tucker, and nodded. Tucker shrugged. 

“I think I was at my apartment… or…” He turned to Church. “Was that the night Tex kicked you out and you came to me crying?” Church turned red and mouthed threats at him as Tex snorted. 

“You were crying?” 

“No! I was just--” He tried to defend himself, but Caboose piped up, finally remembering. 

“Yeah! That was the night we had that big sleepover! And I drank lots of juice and Tucker let me play with a squirrel all night in the backyard while Church was crying about how you didn’t love him anymore and how he wanted to be with you and kiss you again but he couldn’t because he was mad and--” Tucker didn’t think it was possible for Church to get any redder. 

“Caboose? I’m gonna kill you.” Caboose paused. 

“I mean, you were better eventually. Tucker gave you a nice drink until you fell asleep.” Caboose tried to correct himself, but now Tex was outright laughing and Church looked like he was going to explode. “Yeah… I’ll just stop talking now.” 

“ _ So.  _ None of you were at Valhalla Bank that night?” The cop asked, desperately trying to get back on track. Tucker snorted. 

“Nah man, I didn’t get to leave the house at all that night. I had to babysit Caboose  _ and  _ Church.” Which made Tex double over in laughter. The cop cleared his throat. 

“Thanks. I have somewhere I need to be now. See you, boss.” He nodded politely at each of them and stalked off as fast as he could without running. 

“See you around, dude!” Tucker shouted after him. 

“God, I hope not,” the cop muttered, sliding into his car, and plotting the quickest route to the nearest bar. 

 

* * *

 

MAINE:  _ Are you done yet? _

WASH:  _ Yes, finally. Want to come get a drink with me? _

MAINE:  _ It’s 1 in the afternoon. _

WASH:  _ So? _

MAINE: …

MAINE:  _ Sure. Where? _

 

 _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._ _._

 

“Just a whiskey, please,” Wash said, putting some money on the counter. The bartender nodded and Wash sat down on a stool. He sighed, reveling in the sojourn from the already exhausting day. Who knew being a cop could be so tiring? He leaned over, resting his head on his folded arms, and groaned as he listed out all the other things he had to do today. Fortunately, it was the weekend-- which meant no tests tomorrow-- but he still had psych homework to do, and he promised Donut that he would come over later. He also had to type up a report for Carolina… He groaned again, for good measure. 

Somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and a phone was shoved in his face.

_ Rough day? _

Wash sat up and smiled half-heartedly at Maine as the man took a seat beside him. 

“Something like that.” 

_ I could tell. It’s only 1 in the afternoon.  _

“So you’ve said.” Maine gestured at the case file that Wash had placed next to him. 

_ May I?  _ Wash nodded and slid it over to him. Maine opened the folder. He had only looked at it a few seconds before he grunted and threw the folder down.  _ I know them.  _

“They’re the guys that come to your cafe, right?” Maine nodded, and Wash had to stifle a laugh at the clear irritation on Maine’s face. 

_ They always order a lot though, so I can’t complain.  _ The bartender came over just then, and set the drink down in front of Wash. 

“Thanks, Lopez.” He grunted and glanced at Maine, raising an eyebrow. 

_ “ _ _ Vas a ordenar?”  _ {Are you going to order?} Wash grinned. This should be interesting: a mute and a spanish speaker trying to communicate. But Maine simply grunted and held up two fingers. The bartender nodded, and as he hurried away, Wash got the feeling that the two have done this often. 

_ So how’s the case going?  _ Wash shrugged. 

“It’s not much of a case on my part. I’m just supposed to ask these guys if they were in Valhalla Bank on August 5th. Apparently there was a robbery that night, and something connects them to that.” 

_ Something?  _

“Yeah. I wasn’t given the full details. I’m just supposed to ask them.” 

_ Why aren’t you questioning them at the station? _

“Well, right now, I need to check out their alibis before I can truly question them. No point if they really weren’t involved.” 

_ And?  _ Wash pulled out his notepad and passed it to Maine. 

“Right now, their only alibis are each other. And Dexter Grif was home alone that night. So they could be covering for each other, or lying, or none of them really were there.” He thought back to the conversation in the park. The Blue’s had all seemed sincere… or at least, they were too stupid to come up with a perfect story, so Wash didn’t think they were involved. But Grif and Simmons didn’t have the perfect stories. Out of all of them, Wash would place those two at the top of his list. Maine slid the notepad back as the bartender set a drink in front of him. Maine grunted and took a big gulp of it. 

_ “De nada.”  _ The bartender said, and left. Wash took a sip of his own drink, and nearly choked. Some days, he couldn’t tell if he was drinking alcohol or gasoline. He’s pretty sure the bartender doesn’t know the difference. But Wash seriously needed to get drunk, so he drank it anyway. 

A multitude of drinks later and finally, blessedly, he began to feel warm and fuzzy. The memories of the day’s events slid lethargically back into his mind, and Wash sighed with pleasure. Maine watched in amusement as Wash’s eyelids grew ever heavier. He typed something on his phone, and made the font considerably bigger so Wash could read it. 

_ Need a ride home?  _ Wash blinked a few times and squinted at the text. He hiccuped and shook his head. 

“No… ‘s okay. I’ll call Donut…” He fumbled for his phone, but Maine stopped him, a wry grin on his lips. 

_ I insist.  _ He typed. Wash blinked again and peered at him. 

“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly and tried to get out of his stool, but his knees buckled. Maine caught him just before his hit the ground. 

_ “Ligero,”  _ {Lightweight} Lopez snorted, accepting the money Maine placed on the counter. Wash protested weakly, but he was already being half-carried out the door. 

 

The sunlight was blinding, but fleeting as Maine had thankfully parked close to the bar. He dumped Wash in the passenger’s side, and slid behind the wheel. Somehow, even though he had almost as much as Wash had to drink, Maine wasn’t even remotely fazed. 

Even as he was thinking this, Wash was drifting off to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Wash woke up in his bed. That was odd. Hadn’t he been at the park? Wait, no… he was at the bar. With Maine. They were… They were discussing the case, right? And Wash drank a little too much and… 

But how had he gotten home? Did Donut come and get him? No… Maine had given him a ride. 

But how had they gotten in? He was pretty sure he locked his apartment. And anyways, he didn’t think Maine knew his address. 

He groaned at sat up, all at once aware of a pounding headache that rested comfortably in his skull, as though as if it had been there a while. He threw aside his covers and carefully stepped out of bed. It took him a few tries, but eventually, he found his footing. His phone buzzed on his nightstand, startling him so much he nearly fell over, but Wash caught himself and grabbed it. 

 

MAINE: Are you awake yet? 

WASH: Yeah… What happened? 

MAINE: You had a bit too much to drink.

WASH: Oh. 

WASH: How did you get in my apartment? 

MAINE: It wasn’t that hard. Your keys were under your doormat. As a cop, you of all people should know that’s not the best hiding place. 

WASH: Yeah, yeah, I’ll move them. 

MAINE: I’m back at the station, I’ve got another assignment tonight.

 

Tonight? Wash checked the clock, and was startled to to find it read 7:30. 

 

WASH: Woah. I’ve been out a while. 

MAINE: That’s an understatement. Call me if you need anything. 

WASH: Thanks. 

 

He groaned and flopped on his bed, flinging an arm over his forehead. 7:30? Fuck it all. There were a million things he was supposed to be doing right now: tracking down the rest of the Reds and Blues, studying for Psych, studying for Calc, not to mention Donut was supposed to come over--  _ Donut! _

Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Wash quickly sprang up, throwing on a clean shirt and kicking aside some scattered books, and stumbled to the front door. 

He opened it breathlessly to reveal Donut carrying a large basket. 

“Hey Wash!” he said brightly. “I brought-- oh. You’ve started without me, haven’t you?” 

“I-- sorry. It’s been a long day,” Wash admitted sheepishly and let him in. Donut sighed as he passed Wash, eyeing the darkened room. 

“Well I’ll say…” he muttered. “It’s alright. We can always save the wine for later!” 

“Thanks,” Wash mumbled, shutting the door. “Do you want something to eat?” he asked, as his own stomach grumbled. 

“I’ll have whatever’s available,” Donut said, sitting politely down on the couch. Wash nodded and headed into the kitchen. 

Five minutes later, he emerged, carrying a plate of sandwiches. He offered one to DOnut, who set down his phone and gladly took it.

“Thanks!” Wash nodded and took a bite of his own. “So,” Donut said between bites, glancing at Wash with a raised eyebrow. 

“What?” Wash shifted, suddenly remembering their last conversation. Donut rolled his eyes. 

“How’s Maine?” he asked, looking at Wash with equal parts curiosity and exasperation. 

“Oh.” Wash cleared his throat and tried to casually take a bite of his sandwich. The effect was cut short, however, when a piece got lodged in his throat and he spent several seconds coughing. “Uh. He’s good,” Wash said once he was able to speak again. Donut sighed. 

“That’s not what I  _ meant,”  _ he said, lowering his voice. “Have you two…  _ done _ anything yet?” Wash could feel the blood rushing to his face, and attempted to hide it with a dignified sip of his water. 

“I… No. Um. We’re just friends,” Donut sat back. 

“Well, hurry up then!” 

“What?” 

“The dancing around is always so  _ boring.  _ Slow builds are  _ so _ last year.” Wash fumbled for words, and all the while, his face reddened even more. Donut sighed and reached for his bag, shaking his head. 

“I never thought it would come to this…” he said, pulling out a small bottle and shoving it at Wash. 

“What is this?” he asked, confused, examining the bottle. 

“ Tom Ford Noir Eau de Parfum,” Donut said proudly. “Top ten best men’s cologne.” Wash flushed. 

“I don’t…” he started, but Donut stopped him. 

“Wear this, and that slow build will speed up pretty quickly.” Wash opened his mouth to protest, but-- “I’m not taking it back,” Donut warned him. “And don’t you dare throw it out.” So Wash closed his mouth and simply accepted the gift.

“Thanks, Donut.” 

“My pleasure! Now. How about a movie?”

“No romantic comedies this time,” Wash said firmly, as Donut reached again for his bag. 

“But--!” he started to pout, but just then, Wash’s phone went off. He grabbed it, mumbling an apology. He turned it on to read the single text from…  _ Carolina,  _ of all people. 

“What…?” Wash dropped the cup of water in his hands, and it crashed to the ground, shattering into pieces. 

He gasped as his eyes skimmed the short message and, even though he was in a chair, he felt the world tip underneath him. Quickly, he stumbled up and grabbed for his coat. 

“Wait! Where are you going?” Donut called from the couch. Wash turned around to face him, and all the blood in his face was draining out, leaving his skin a sickly shade of pale. 

“Maine’s been shot,” he said hoarsely, and stumbled out the door. 

 

* * *

 

_ NUMBER BLOCKED _

XXXX: I’m at a loss. What could possibly have happened that you were unable to complete your mission? 

XXXXX: I’m sorry, sir. A Freelancer intervened before I could do anything.

XXXX: This is unacceptable. I don’t tolerate failure well, SF. 

XXXXX: Forgive me. It won’t happen again. 

XXXX: No. It won’t. 


	4. As it turns out, no one on the unit can hold their liquor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got some more Mainewash in here, and also, Wash's world gets turned around (again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a little late-- I'm going to try to be updating every Friday from now on. The stories just getting starting. :) Thanks to those of you who left comments/kudos!!

_ It had been a rough day. Wash gently massaged his temples from his table in the cafe, about ready to abandon his assignments and call it quits when a coffee was placed in front of him. Wash didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Maine always just seemed to know when he was having a bad day.  _

_ “Thanks,” Wash muttered, taking a sweet sip of the drink. As usual, it was brewed to perfection. Maine gently sat down in the seat across from him, wiping his hands on his apron. He raised a questioning eyebrow, and, without having to write it down, Wash knew what he was asking.  _

_ “Long day,” he said tiredly. “Some kid nearly drowned in the pool I was lifeguarding at, and I failed my psych test.” Maine regarded him sympathetically. Wash groaned and laid his head on the table. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he muttered. “I have a job, sure, but I’m only barely passing the subject I want to major in, and I’ve barely made the rent last month, not to mention I’m knee-deep in student loans and… ugh, I’m practically  _ living _ off coffee.” Maine grunted.  _

_ “No, I like your coffee,” Wash assured him. “But I practically sweat the stuff. Donut is gonna flip when I see him.” He closed his eyes briefly, picturing the look of pity and disappointment on his friend’s face, and the look on his mom’s face when he tells her he can’t pay for college anymore, and he didn’t really want to ever open his eyes again.  _

_ Maine touched him then, kindly and gently placing his palm on Wash’s shoulder, and the same warmth Wash had felt every time he took a sip of his coffee was sent coursing through his veins now. Somehow, just that simple touch eased the weight off of his shoulders, and Wash felt the sky being lifted off his back. He sighed contentedly, and his head sank lower into his arms comfortably.  _

_ How could just one touch give him so much strength? Wash didn’t know. But he was learning real quick. He peered up at Maine, who was leaned across the table and looking at him with kind eyes.  _

_ “Thank you,” Wash mumbled. It seemed like all he could say was ‘thanks.’ Thanks for the coffee. Thanks for the talk. Thank you for caring about me, even though we barely know each other. Thank you.  _

 

“Thank you.” York and North exchanged glances. 

“Uh, you’re welcome?” North ventured, and Wash pulled open his eyelids. He blinked once, twice, three times, taking in his surroundings. He was on a couch, a flimsy sheet placed over him, and what seemed like a permanent headache was throbbing right between his eyes. Wash groaned as a wave of nausea overcame him. 

“What…?” York grinned and patted his shoulder, a touch which, Wash noted vaguely, was nowhere close to the warmth Maine had emitted. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living!” York laughed as Wash groaned again. “Dude, you were  _ tanked.”  _

“Ow,” Wash managed to say, leaning over. York quickly dropped his smile and he backed up a bit. 

“Hey, uh, you aren’t going to puke, are you?” Wash shook his head, and York sighed in relief. But he nudged over a wastebasket just in case. 

“Maine…” Wash mumbled. 

“He’s okay,” North assured him quickly. “The bullet missed anything vital. He’s in recovery right now.” Wash swung his feet over the side of the couch, and York moved to help him up. 

“Woah there, take it easy man.” He glanced at North. “You think they have anything here for a bad hangover?” he joked. Wash surged up and stumbled forward. “Alright! Alright, just go slow.” 

“‘M okay,” Wash muttered. 

“Yeah, right,” York rolled his eyes. “Okay, can you take a step? Good, that’s good. Come on, take another. Good. Geez, just how much did you have to drink?” 

 

Twenty long and slow minutes later, Wash stumbled in the recovery room with the help of York. The rest of the unit was there, save South Dakota. Once North realized that, he pulled out his phone and left the room. They could hear him arguing from out in the hallway. 

Wyoming and CT were playing some card game in the corner, although they both had bags under their eyes and seemed more than a little tipsy. 

“Go fish!” CT triumphantly said, laying down her cards to reveal a full house. Wyoming cursed and threw a few pennies at her. 

Carolina leaned up against the wall, her arms folded, and looking out the window. She noticeably perked up, however, when she saw Wash and York. Or, at least as ‘perked up’ as Carolina could get. York set Wash down in a chair near the hospital bed and went over to talk to her. 

Tex wasn’t there. That wasn’t too surprising. 

But, out of all the people there, Wash could only see Maine. He was propped up in bed, bandages covering his whole torso, and was watching Animal Planet on the TV across the room. He too, had bags under his eyes, and there was a frown plastered on his face. 

“Hey,” Wash said softly, and Maine’s eyes flickered to him. His eyebrows lifted a bit. “How are you doing?” Maine grunted.  _ Fine.  _

Wash nodded. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say now that he was here. What are you supposed to say when your friend has just woken up from surgery? I’m here for you? You’re okay now? 

He was saved from coming up with words when CT threw her cards down on the table and angrily stood up. 

“You cheated!” she slurred, pointing an accusatory finger at Wyoming. 

“I can assure you, my dear, I did not,” he said, eyes wide in surprise and drunken confusion.

“Yes you did!” CT shouted through gritted teeth, leaning over the table. Carolina came up behind her and gripped her arm. 

“CT…” she said in what was meant to be a reassuring tone, and CT just pulled away. 

“Liar,” she snarled, narrowing her eyes at Wyoming. 

“CT!” Carolina snapped, and CT glanced at her for a brief second. 

“Fuck  _ off _ ,” she growled. York unfolded his arms. 

“Hey…” he warned, tensing like he was Carolina’s guard dog (even though she could more than handle herself). Wash began to stand up, ready to defuse the inevitable fight. But just then, North entered the room, South trailing right behind him. Inexplicably, as soon as she saw her, CT eased the slightest. 

“What’s going on?” North asked. 

“Hey guys,” South said, yawning casually. “Didja start the party without me?” North sighed and shook his head. 

“It took me three tries to at least get her to answer her phone,” he told Wash. “And I still had to listen to her cuss me out for five minutes straight on her way here.” 

South, like the rest of them, was visibly exhausted, and her blonde hair was tied back in a big mess, a few purple tips hanging loose around her face. But she held herself in a defiant pose, and the corners of her mouth were turned downwards in a permanently etched frown. She narrowed her eyes as she took in the scene. 

“CT causing trouble again?” 

“Shut up, South,” CT muttered, but her tone wasn’t laced with malice any more. South rolled her eyes, and jerked her head towards the door. 

“Come on, let’s get you some water,” she said, already leaving. Without even so much as a sigh, CT stalked out after her, throwing a dirty glare towards Wyoming on her way out. Carolina watched the two leave with an amused look on her face. 

“How long has that been going on?” York muttered, and she smirked. Wyoming stood up and stretched. 

“As much as I love nearly having my head ripped off, I think I’m going to head home.” He glanced through bleary eyes at Maine and patted his foot. “Way to pull through, lad.” 

“Want me to call you a cab?” York offered. 

“I’m perfectly fine. Us Englishmen can hold our liquor…” Wyoming shook his head, but he stumbled a little as he reached for his coat. York reached out and steadied him. 

“Woah there. Alright, yeah, I’m calling a cab.” Wyoming protested weakly as York guided him out the door. 

“Knock knock…” Wash could hear him slur out in the hall. 

“Shut up,” York sighed. 

Once the two were gone, North patted Wash’s shoulder. 

“I’m going to head down to the shop real quickly. I haven’t eaten much today. Want me to get you anything?” 

“Uh, no. No thanks. I’m fine,” Wash said glancing up at him. North nodded and turned to Carolina. 

“Hey, why don’t you come with me?” 

“Me? Why?” Carolina said, giving him an odd look. North glanced at Wash pointedly, which even  _ she  _ couldn’t miss.

“Just come give me a hand.” Carolina looked at Wash as well, and with realization dawning on her face, nodded. 

“Alright. Take care of him, Wash. We’ll be back in a bit.” Wash started, breaking his gaze away from Maine. 

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” And just as quickly as all the rest, they were gone. Wash shifted in his chair and turned back to Maine.

“So,” he started awkwardly. Maine glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. Wash cleared his throat. 

“I’m, uh, I’m glad you’re… okay.” Maine nodded slightly. “Rough business, huh?” he joked, trying to lighten the mood. Maine grunted and turned back to the TV. 

“I just… I never imagined…” Wash continued, struggling for the right words. “That being a police officer would mean getting shot.” Maine raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I know it’s a dangerous job and all,” he added hastily. “I just… never expected it... to be  _ you _ .” 

Unexpectedly, his voice cracked, and Wash realized just how truly  _ scared _ he had been when he heard about Maine. He had gotten the text, and it was like his heart just stopped. He barely remembered the ride to hospital (Donut had insisted on driving him), barely remembered stumbling into the waiting room, and being told that Maine was in surgery, that he had taken two shots to the shoulder. He barely remembered blacking out just after he heard the news, and the next thing he knew, he woke up on the hospital couch. 

It was so close. If the shooter had moved his aim just the tiniest bit to the left, it all would have been gone. Disappeared. Sweet coffee and melty cookies and warm touches and smiles and laughter and something that Wash had struggled to find for a long time. Gone, in a blink of an eye. 

A horrible image came to him then, of an abandoned old coffee shop, with the windows cracked and the sign falling off. Of broken lights, and old, ripped pictures of cats that littered the dirty floor. Of an empty counter, and empty shelves, and half-filled packages of coffee beans that were tipped over and spilled out onto the floor. And of Wash’s table, with a chair missing, and another overturned, cracked down the middle and rusting away. And of an empty shop, dark and cold and  _ gone.  _

Wash blinked, startled to find a wetness dusting his eyelashes. He cleared his throat and shook his head slightly. 

“I, uh…” he trailed off, trying to say something,  _ anything,  _ but he didn’t know what. Maine was looking at him expectantly. “I just.” He gathered himself, tried to take a deep breath, tried to calm down, tried to  _ think _ . “You’re my friend,” Wash said firmly, wrapping it all up in one neat coherent statement. “And…” Again, he stopped. But now, Maine seemed to know what he was saying. Maine always knew. He looked at Wash with big, dark brown eyes that pulled his words out of his mouth and hung them in the air. 

Wash glanced down at his lap, his hands twisting nervously. He wasn’t sure what to say, or what to do. He didn’t know if there was anything he  _ could  _ do. 

And then there were warm hands covering his, a comforting gesture. Wash jerked up, startled, and met Maine’s eyes again. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then, slowly, Maine’s eye-lids fluttered shut. Minutes later, he was snoring. But he hadn’t moved his hand. 

Wash nodded and sniffed. And two words came to him then, which he whispered to himself, but also to Maine, and the words floated in mid-air, dead smack in the center of the room. They hung there, casting a blanket over the two of them. The smell of coffee and chocolate chip cookies wafted vaguely into the room, and Wash sighed. 

“Thank you.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Wash stepped quietly, carefully on the concrete floors. Metallic clanking sounds and voices drifted through the halls from the back room, one of which he was vaguely familiar with-- a monotone spanish voice. The other was old, gruff and brash and spoke with a commanding tone. Wash flipped through the file he held in his hands, producing two pictures: one, the man he knew. Lopez. The other picture matched the voice he heard, an older man who apparently was a veteran. 

“ No, eso no va ahí, idiota.” {No, that doesn’t go there, you idiot} 

“Hey Lopez! Hand me that hammer, wouldja?” 

“ Eso es un destornillador.” {That’s a screwdriver} 

“Heh heh, you got me there! I do love to--” 

“Hello?” Wash called. All noise stopped immediately. Wash cleared his throat and tried again. “Is anyone there? It’s the police!” He peered around the corner to get a visual-- 

Which he got alright. He found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. 

“Woah!” he cried, surprised, throwing his hands in the air. “Easy there! I’m not gonna hurt anybody…” The old man, who was on the other end of the gun, snorted. 

“Yeah right. That’s what they said last time.” 

“No! I’m just here to ask some questions!” Wash insisted. The man tilted his head. 

“Just questions, huh?” 

“Yes!” he reached for his notepad, but the shotgun was shoved further into his face. 

“No moving!” 

“Alright, alright,” Wash said hastily. “I’m Agent-- er,  _ Officer _ Washington. I’m from the Blood Gulch Police department, investigating the Valhalla Bank robbery. Um are you… Sergeant…” He struggled to remember the man’s name. 

“Just Sarge,” the man said, lowering the gun a little. 

“Sarge,” Wash repeated. Apparently the man hadn’t adjusted well to civilian life very well. “Okay, Sarge, why don’t you put down the gun and we can talk?” Sarge considered the offer with a tilted head. He glanced at Lopez. Wash met the bartender’s eyes desperately. Lopez nodded. Sarge lowered his shotgun. 

“Alright. You get five minutes. I’m busy,” he said, turning back into the room. Wash exhaled in relief and followed him in. He could already tell, it was going to be another long day. 

 

* * *

 

Wash scowled and flipped his notepad shut. Both Sergeant and Lopez had airtight alibis, each having been working at the local bar on the night of the fifth. Seeing as they both had counter duty that night, and the bank was on the opposite end of town, neither could have made it there and back in time. 

He glanced back at the mechanic’s garage briefly once more, then ducked into his cruiser. He went over a mental checklist of things he had to do in his head while he pulled out of the driveway.

_ Check on Maine, update Donut, finish my Psych paper, type up my report, meet with my landlord to pay the rent…  _ He sighed. It was going to be a long day indeed. 

Just then, his radio crackled with static. 

“Agent Washington? Come in, Agent Washington.” Command. Wash fiddled with the dials on his car, switching to a direct channel. 

“I’m here,” he said, pulling up to a stoplight. 

“Agent Washington, you’re needed back at the station.” Wash frowned. 

“The station? Why?” 

“Agent Carolina wants to speak with you.” 

“What? Why?” He could almost hear the eye roll on the other end of the line. 

“I don’t know Wash, just get here.” Wash sighed. 

“Alright, alright I’m coming.” He was already maneuvering the car into the next lane. “Hey, command?” 

“What do you need, Agent Washington?” 

“Do you know when Agent Maine will be back on duty?” Command made no effort to hide her sigh. 

“Wash, it’s not my job to check up on your boyfriend.” Wash jerked a little, and the car swerved. 

“What?!” he screeched, struggling to steady the car out. 

“Command out.” 

“Wh-- wait!” Wash fiddled with the dials again, trying to page her, but to no avail. Once it became it was useless to keep trying, he sighed and leaned back in the seat. “I’m gonna need another drink,” he muttered. That, and a vacation. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You wanted to see me, Boss?” Carolina glanced up from her desk. 

“Yeah, thanks for coming in Wash.” He nodded and took a seat. 

“What’s up?” 

“I have a new assignment for you,” she said, sliding a folder towards him on the table. He frowned. 

“I… what? I thought I already have an assignment.” She shook her head. 

“This takes precedence. I need you on this one instead.” Wash reluctantly picked up the folder. 

“But--” he started to protest. She glared at him, and he swallowed. “I just,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’m close to finding the suspect on the other case. I’m almost there! I just need a little more time--” She shook her head. 

“No, Wash. Like I said, this one is more important.” 

“How... how can it be more important than a bank robbery?” 

“It just is Wash,” she sighed.

“But--” She slammed her hand on the desk, and Wash jumped in his seat. 

“There was no bank robbery!” Carolina exploded. He paused. 

“I… what?” She sighed and shook her head, taking a minute to compose herself. When she spoke again, her tone was calmer. 

“There was no bank robbery. It was a simulated case. Fake.” Wash struggled to understand. 

“Simulated?”

“Simulated.” 

“But… I interviewed real people.” She nodded. “They all had real answers, right?” 

“Yes, they were real. But the case wasn’t.” 

“So… I just interrupted random people’s day’s for a… fake case?” She leaned back in her chair, and a shadow passed over her face. 

“Agent…  _ Texas,”  _ she spat the name out distastefully, “knows a few of them. She called in some favors. They were told that an officer would be speaking to them, and to answer the questions as truthfully as possible.” Wash blinked. 

“But…” 

“Just think of it as a test. Designed to determine your field capabilities. How you would handle yourself in a situation with more…  _ abnormal  _ characters.” 

“I was nearly shot by one of them!” Wash protested. 

“But you weren’t,” Carolina pointed out. “So congratulations, Wash. You passed the test. You’re even on the leaderboard now.” 

“The leaderboard?” She pointed to a screen on the wall next to them. On it was a list of all the names of the people in his unit, starting with Carolina and ending with CT. Wash was second to last. “Oh,” he said blankly, unsure of what else to say. 

“There you go. Now, your case.” Wash nodded absently, and picked up the file. He took a deep breath to clear his mind, flipped the folder open, and skimmed it briefly. 

“A stabbing?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously?” He sighed. “You guys do know that I have no experience as a cop, right? Like, at all?” Carolina shrugged. 

“You’ve passed all our tests with flying colors.” He glanced up at her, eyes narrowing.

“ _ All?”  _

“The victim was found in the streets, two stabs wounds to the back. He has bruised knuckles, which suggest a fight before he was killed.” Wash scanned the pictures. “The catch? He still had all his possessions on him, including a full wallet, a wedding band, and a watch.” 

“Huh,” Wash muttered, reading over the victim’s profile. “Gabriel Smith?” Carolina nodded. “You thinking it’s a gang kill?”

“Most likely. Some of the other agents are tracking similar disturbances, all caused by a gang known as the Insurrection.” Wash snorted. 

“Nice name.” She shrugged. 

“They have the resources and the men to back it up. I wouldn’t be laughing so much.” He quieted and nodded seriously. 

“Alright. I’ll go check out the scene,” he said, standing up. Carolina stopped him. 

“Oh, do you know how to fight with a knife?” He paused. 

“Um, no?” She looked at him meaningfully. 

“Well, you might want to. I think CT’s in the training room now. You should ask her for help.” Wash nodded cautiously.

“Alright,” he said. “Will do, Boss. Thanks.” She nodded and turned back to her computer. 

“Good luck Wash.” 

 

* * *

 

 

WASH: Hey, how are you feeling?

MAINE: Fine. I’ll be discharged soon.

WASH: Already?!  
MAINE: They say I’m healing well.

WASH: No kidding.

MAINE: How are things going with the case?

WASH: About that… apparently it was just a simulation case. Not the real thing.

MAINE: I wondered.

WASH: You knew?! 

MAINE: All of us had one when we started out. I had a… car theft, I think. 

WASH: Huh. Anyways, now I’m on this OTHER case. A gang murder. 

MAINE: Insurrectionists?  
WASH: Yep.

MAINE: Interesting. We should compare notes.

WASH: Definitely!

WASH: I’ve got to go, CT’s teaching me how to fight with knives, and she’s getting impatient. 

MAINE: Good luck.

WASH: I think I’ll need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapters a little shorter than I intended.... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. Grand Re-Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maine is back, and the Reds and the Blues are happier than ever.

“Man, this sucks,” Tucker complained loudly, prompting glares from families all around him. 

“We  _ know,  _ Tucker. We’ve heard you the first  _ fifty fucking times,”  _ Church griped, banging back a large espresso and making a face. “Ugh.” 

“The coffee here isn’t even  _ good.  _ I seriously need the stuff from Coon’s Cafe,” Tucker continued, ignoring the dirty looks the barista gave him. “The fuck is this place again? Starbucks? Takes like dirt and it’s expensive as  _ shit.”  _ Caboose looked up from his phone. 

“I like it,” he pouted, taking a sip of his drink. 

“You’re drinking  _ water,  _ Caboose.” 

“Oh. Right.” He went back to his game, and Tucker rolled his eyes. 

“They won’t even let us get in a shouting match with the Reds! So fucking boring.” 

“Tucker, shut up, you’re pissing everybody off.” 

“I’m just saying--!” 

“Excuse me, sir?” They all looked up as an uncomfortable-looking waitress stood over them. Tucker immediately shifted so his good side was angled toward her. Church rolled his eyes and made a gagging motion. 

“Hey baby,” Tucker flirted, flipping his dreads. But she continued as if she didn’t hear him. 

“We’re going to need you to leave. You’re disturbing the customers,” she said lowly. Church sighed and grabbed his coat. This wasn’t anything new.

“Thanks a lot Tucker. I  _ told  _ you to shut up.” 

“Oh fu-- I mean,  _ forget  _ you Church.” 

“Come on, Caboose,” Church said, half-shoving the guy out of the booth. In practiced motions, he hauled them all out of their seats and towards the door. “Alright, let’s go.” He unfolded a few bills and handed them apologetically to the waitress. 

As soon as they were out, Church whirled on Tucker. 

“Are you incapable of shutting your goddamn mouth for  _ one goddamn second?  _ This is the fifth restaurant we’ve been kicked out of today!” 

“Hey, it’s not my fault the Cafe’s closed,” Tucker protested, folding his arms. Church rolled his eyes. 

“Jesus,” he muttered. “I don’t even know why I put up with you.” Tucker scoffed. 

“That’s rich, coming from literally the world’s biggest  _ asshole.”  _

“Hey man, at least I know when to fucking shut my mouth!” 

“Okay, you know what--?” 

“Shh,” Church interrupted. “You hear that? It’s the sound the air in your head escaping out through your mouth.” 

“Oh  _ fuck you-- _ ” 

“Hey Church? Um, Church?”   
“Not now, Caboose.” 

“Yeah, shut up Caboose.” 

“But, um. He’s back. The coffee man.” Church reluctantly turned away from Tucker to follow Caboose’s finger. To the surprise and relief of all of them, miraculously, the big man who runs Coon’s Cafe was unlocking the door. 

“Holy shit,” Tucker breathed. 

“Oh thank god,” Church said. “I am in  _ serious _ withdrawal.” 

“Yeah… but who’s that guy with him?” Tucker asked, eyeing a blonde man who was hovering near the Cashier’s elbow. He seemed tiny in comparison, but that didn’t stop the two of them from chatting idly as they entered the store. Neither did the fact that the big man was mute. 

“Who cares--?” Church started to say, but his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Isn’t he that one cop?” 

“Oh yeah, the guy Tex knew?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” Seemingly ignorant to the conversation behind him, Caboose suddenly started forward across the street, and towards the shop. 

“Caboose! Where are you going?” 

“To make new friends!” Caboose tossed over his shoulder as he ran towards the shop. Tucker and Church exchanged glances, then with a shrug each, chased after him. 

“Hello!” Caboose shouted, pulling up to the two in front of the shop. The blonde man turned around, startled. 

“Uh…, hi?” he said hesitantly, while the big man glanced down at Caboose, not unkindly.

“My name is Michael J. Caboose,” Caboose said, looking at them expectantly. The two men exchanged glances, then the blonde-haired man cleared his throat. 

“Um, nice to meet you… Michael. I’m Washington and this is Maine,” he introduced. “Can we… help you?” 

“Hello Washingtub! Will you be my friends?” Caboose asked, beaming up at the two of them with a ridiculous smile while behind him, Tucker and Church skidded to a breathless stop. The blonde man seemed startled at the appearance of all of them, and stood frozen, at a loss for words. 

“Hey,” Church panted casually while Tucker gasped. “You, uh… you open?” The men exchanged looks again, and Maine nodded. 

“Yeah,” Washington said finally. “Come on in.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Knock knock?” York asked softly as he nudged open the door to Carolina’s office. 

“What is it, York?” Though her tone was brash, she didn’t say go away, so York took that as an invitation, and stepped further into the room. 

“So,” he started casually. She glanced up at him. 

“Yes?” she asked a little impatiently. 

“Well. I’m on break now. And I heard Maine is back.” 

“ _ Yes?”  _ she asked again, waiting for him to get to the point. He smirked, enjoying her impatience… but knew he should probably make this quick.

“I was wondering if you wanted to head over to his cafe and maybe grab a coffee?” 

“Sure.” 

“I mean it’s alright if you’re too busy, I-- wait. What?” Did she just say…  _ sure?  _ York blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that response. “Really?” Carolina nodded and typed a few things on her keyboard. 

“Yeah. Just give me five minutes. I’ve been wanting to go see Maine anyway.” York nodded and stood up, flustered. 

“Well. Great! Um. Yeah, great. I’ll-- I’ll meet you in the lobby then?” 

“Okay.” 

York turned and half-stumbled out of her office in a daze, closing the door gently behind him. He leaned against the wall for support and, after the situation had sunk in completely, grinned widely. 

“ _ Awesome.”  _

 

* * *

 

 

Wash leaned against the counter, sighing as a cupcake flew through the air, accompanied by a multitude of insults and curses. Maine growled from over near the coffee machine. 

“You said it,” Wash agreed. “Not a day since you’ve opened shop, and they’re already starting trouble again.” He shook his head in exasperation as Maine grunted. 

“No, hopefully they’ll just wear themselves out.” 

“Well, if it takes too long, just kick them out.” 

“You’re too soft on them.” 

“Okay, that’s too  _ harsh _ .” 

“So, question.” Wash jumped as someone materialized out of nowhere, and turned around. One of the blues--  _ Tucker,  _ he remembered-- was leaning up against the counter next to Wash, with an odd smile on his face. “Can you actually understand what he’s saying?” Wash eyed him suspiciously. 

“I-- yes. I can. Why do you ask?” Tucker shrugged, that odd smile still plastered on his face. 

“I just wanted to know if you’ve got, like, special mind reading powers or something. ‘Cuz that would be totally cool.” 

“Well, sorry to disappoint you,” Wash said slowly. Tucker just smirked. 

“Nah. You’re interesting enough without the cool powers.” Wash felt his face begin to, inexplicably,  _ redden.  _ He coughed, attempting to compose himself. 

“Well. T-thanks.” Tucker winked. 

“Don’t thank me yet.” With that, he turned and slapped a twenty on the counter. “Latte, please.” 

Maine didn’t move from his position over by the coffee machine. Tucker frowned and repeated himself, leaning over the counter. “Uh, excuse me? Can I get a latte?” Wash turned to look at Maine, who seemed to be glaring at the machine in front of him. After a few seconds, he stalked over and snatched the money off the counter. 

“Maine?” Wash asked, confounded by his friends abnormal actions. Maine didn’t look at him, though, and instead busied himself with making the coffee. It didn’t take him very long, and before Tucker could open his mouth to say something else to Wash, the latte was slammed down on the counter. 

“Uh, thanks man.” Tucker said, looking at Maine with the same bewilderment Wash felt. When the man didn’t acknowledge the thanks, and simply continued to glare down at him, Tucker turned and went back to his booth. Wash turned to glance at Maine, nonplussed.

“What was that?” he asked. Maine turned away. “Maine…” Wash tried to read him, looking for anything that might give him a hint as too what had happened. But Maine was closed, and Wash couldn’t get anything out of him. He sighed, and felt something vibrate in his pocket. He pulled out his phone. 

 

CT: You coming, or what? 

 

“Shit,” Wash muttered, shutting off his phone and turning back to Maine. “I gotta go, CT’s giving me another lesson today. Text you tonight, alright?” Maine grunted, but other than that, didn’t react. Wash looked at him for a few more minutes, torn between staying and asking what was the matter, and leaving to go to CT. His fear of CT won, so he turned and ran out of the shop, nearly bumping into York and Carolina as they entered. 

“Hey-- Wash?” York started as Wash passed him. 

“Hey guys, sorry! Gotta go!” Wash tossed over his shoulder, and hopped in his car. York shrugged. 

“Well hello to you too,” he muttered, moving to catch up with Carolina who had continued to the counter. He could hear snatches of conversation from the table around him. 

“--doing with that guy by the counter?” 

“Hey man, sometimes I like to expand my tastes. Get some variety, you know?” 

“Jesus christ.” 

“Hey Simmons, do you think if Lopez rolls his eyes any harder, they’ll just fall out?” 

“ _ Pendejo _ .” 

York kept walking. 

“Hey Maine,” he greeted the cashier. “Glad to see you back! How ya’ feeling?” Maine pulled out his notepad and began scribbling on it. He held it out for them to both read. 

_ Better. Can I get you guys anything?  _

“Cappuccino with an extra pump of milk,” they both said in unison. Carolina glanced at York in surprise. He just smiled back at her. 

“Well how about that?” he said, raising an eyebrow. Maine grunted and began working on their order. He waved a hand at them to go sit down, so York went ahead and grabbed a table. 

“Do you think Sarge is coming today?” he overheard at one of the tables. 

“No, he said something about having to defend his garage from invading police officers,” came the reply. “He’s been at it for about a week now.” 

“Geez, you think he’d give it a rest.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s Sarge.” York shook his head and picked a booth at random, preferably far away from the other customers. Seconds later, Carolina joined him, clutching a bundle of napkins. 

“Hey,” he said, taking them from her and setting it down on the table. She nodded in reply. “How’s your case going?” he asked, then paused. “What case  _ are  _ you working on?” She sighed and rubbed her temples. 

“Same as you. Trying to keep the Insurrectionists in check. They’ve been off the charts in disturbances lately.” York shook his head. 

“Even  _ you’re  _ on them? Geez.” 

“All Freelancers are assigned to their case.” 

“Even Wash?” 

“He got his assignment a few days ago. A stabbing.” 

“Poor kid,” York muttered. “How long has he been at this job?” Carolina frowned as she counted the days. 

“Three weeks,” she said finally, and sighed. “The Director seems to think he can handle it.” York whistled. 

“It took me at least a month to get me my own case.” Carolina shrugged. 

“Well you didn’t join in the middle of a gang uprising.” 

“That’s true…” York admitted. “Oh thanks, man,” he said as Maine came over to give them their drinks. He greedily took a large sip, then sat back, satisfied, and sighed. “This is amazing.” Maine grunted, and turned to go finally shoo away the noisy people in the other booths. They left reluctantly, with much clattering and protesting, but once they were gone, the shop was nice and quiet. Peaceful. 

“So,” York said, raising an eyebrow at Carolina. He debated about what to follow the word with-- he knew he couldn’t ask anything too personal, otherwise he’d scare her away. But he didn’t want to make small talk either. “Any word on that K-9 unit?” He knew he hooked her when she jerked forward and narrowed her eyes 

“That’s  _ supposed _ to be classified, York.” He shrugged. 

“Everybody knows it. Plus, I’m excited! A field animal? I always wanted a dog.” Carolina studied him suspiciously for a few more seconds before finally relaxing back and sighing 

“Texas already has hers. A doberman named Omega.” York frowned. 

“Has she taken him out to the field yet?” Carolina shrugged, a bitter tone underlying her next words. 

“That’s not for me to know.” 

“Oh,” York said, unsure of what to say. Texas has always been a sore spot for Carolina, and even the mere mention of her would piss her off. He casually lifted up his drink.“When do you get yours?” Carolina’s eyes flicked up towards him, and she has an odd expression on her face. Hesitation? 

“Thursday,” she said, and York stopped mid-gulp. He sputtered and set the cup down. 

“Thursday?! That’s only two days away! Have you even met him yet?” She nodded. 

“Once. The Director took me to see all of them. His name is Sigma. He’s a little older than a field dog typically is, but…” she shrugged. “I’ll make it work.” York sighed. 

“Any chance you know when I get mine?” She shook her head. 

“No, but it should be soon.” A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “I think you two will get along just fine.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Again!” CT shouted over Wash’s shallow, wheezing breaths. He gripped a rubber knife in one hand, and held his other out in a defensive gesture. She stood across from him, brandishing a knife of her own, glaring at him down the tip of the blade. He hastily fixed his posture, and lunged at her. Countless drills had made him tired and sloppy, and his jump fell short. She easily sidestepped a wild slash with his knife and, as he hurtled past her, dragged the flat of her blade across his neck. He stumbled and fell to his knees.  Panting, he pushed himself up and slashed at her again.  _ ‘The blade is an extension of your arm,”  _ she had told him.  _ ‘Wield it like it’s a part of your body.”  _

He finally saw one of her strikes before it happened, and instinctively rolled to the side. ‘ _ Don’t ever stay in the same place for more than a second.’  _ He leapt up and back as she started on him again, narrowly avoiding another hit. She kept pushing him and he backed up further and further and further until his back hit the wall. He barely had time to think, ‘ _ Oh shit,’  _ before CT’s hand came out of nowhere and pressed the blade against his throat. Wash gritted his teeth as she raised an eyebrow. 

“Well?” she pressed. “How do you get out of it?” He briefly ran through the set of movements she had taught him before executing. 

Like he had practiced multiple times before, he brought his arms up and under hers, pressed both palms flat against her lower chest and shoved hard. Wash knew he had gotten in a good enough blow when she staggered back slightly, and her knife clattered to the floor. He saw his opportunity and immediately took it, thrusting himself forward at her, the blunted tip of his knife aimed straight at her chest and-- 

She wasn’t as off-balance as he thought she was. She grabbed his arm with both hands, one at his elbow, the other at his wrist, and twisted. Wash grunted in pain as his own knife dropped to the floor, and she kicked him to the ground. 

He had been trying to hit her, to tap her, or hell, to even get  _ near  _ her for hours, but he still hadn’t managed it. 

CT sighed, a resigned and disappointed sound, and held out her hand to him. Wash gritted his teeth, allowing her to pull him to his feet. 

“Alright, you’ve made…  _ some _ progress at least. Good job today Wash, but I think that’s enough.” He couldn’t agree more. She tossed him a water bottle and he gratefully gulped it back, reveling in the cold beads of water that dribbled down his hands. In seconds, he had practically drained the whole thing. CT watched him with a look of amusement. 

“So,” she started. He glanced at her and reluctantly set down the water bottle. “You’re friends with Maine, huh?” Wash nodded warily. “Can you really understand him? Like without signals or anything?” He hesitated. 

“Yes?” he said, unsure of what she wanted. But she didn’t push the matter, only shrugged and took a sip of her own drink. He curiously watched her movements as he did during their fight. Everything she did was deliberate, precise. She didn’t hesitate. It was easy to underestimate her, given her petite figures (she was shorter than everybody else in the unit), but Wash decided that she was more than capable of anything. He’s experienced it first-hand. 

But she was more than strong. She was…  _ familiar.  _ It was hard to place it, but he felt as if though he knew her somehow. The way she tilted her head so her bangs wouldn’t fall in her eyes. The way her mouth tightened when she was upset. He had only been sparring with her for less than a week, and yet he already felt close to her. He cleared his throat. 

“Um.” She paused toweling herself off, and turned to look at him. And there it was again, that familiar head-tilt. He stared at her awkwardly. He had started to say something… but what? “Can I call you Connie?” he blurted out. She blinked. He blinked. Her eyes narrowed. 

“Why?” Wash’s mouth gaped open and shut like a fish starved for air. Why did he want to call her Connie? Maybe it was because ever since the first time he met her, he had thought that name was much more fitting than something a cold as ‘CT’. But he didn’t know how to explain that to her, so he simply shrugged and shook his head. 

“Nobody calls me that,” she said simply. “Except…,” she mumbled after. Wash stayed silent, waiting for her finish the thought. But she only sighed. 

“Fine. Call me that if you want.” Wash, inexplicably, felt a grin break across his face, and he struggled to suppress it. He nodded and turned away. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, but it was a happy sound and he could have sworn he saw a similar smile on Connie’s face as well. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Director?” A smooth, silky man stepped silently into the room. The door made no noise when he entered, save for the small  _ click  _ when he pressed it shut. The Director scowled silently as the man crept up to the desk. Despite working with the Counselor for many years, he still found the man’s taste a little… abnormal. He was more dangerous than he seemed. The shadows, the working in the background. The Director, while not entirely opposed to working in the dark, preferred a more direct approach to guarantee his results. The Counselor was subtle, sure, but subtlety didn’t win a war. 

The Counselor, on the other hand, enjoyed the outskirts. It made him feel powerful-- a puppetmaster, subliminally controlling ignorant dolls. You can’t  _ force  _ a person to do something, he knew, you had to make him  _ want  _ to do it. This power, this persuasion, is the best form of control. 

But it wasn’t just control he wanted. He was also fascinated by his subjects. What drives them, what makes them tick. How far he could push them before they  _ break.  _ Humans are incredible creatures, with layers upon layers of complex emotions. It was his job, his  _ life _ , to dig through these layers and, if necessary, destroy them. 

There was only one thing that stood in his way-- The Director. Brilliant yet ruthless, he had seen straight through the Counselor’s innocuous exterior to the more malicious side of him, and established limits. ‘I can’t allow you to break my Agents just yet,” the Director had said, that loathful southern accent twanging his words. But what good  _ were _ the agents, if not to see how far they can be pushed?

“You wanted to see me, Director?” the Counselor said, his voice dripping honey-- a trait he has worked countless hours to obtain. But the Director barely even glanced at him. 

“Yes Counselor,” he drawled, penning something down on the stack of papers in front of him. “I want a report on our newest Officer.” 

“Of course, sir,” the Counselor said, pulling out an iPad. He tapped on the screen a few times, pulling up the file. “Officer Washington has made marvelous progress since assigned to Unit Freelancer. Without his lifeguarding job, and his steady drop in college funds, I predict he will be with us for a long time.” 

“Good. Continue siphoning money from his account. The quicker the transition, the better.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Continue with your report.” The Counselor scrolled down and skimmed the rest of the file. 

“He is mentally and morally capable for this job, and, I suspect, he is even ready for a K-9--” 

“Not yet, Counselor,” the Director interrupted. “I want that dog to be trained to our standards before he is released. 

“And by our standards, you mean--” 

“You know what I mean,” the Director interrupted again. The Counselor gritted his teeth, but forced himself to nod politely, as he had done an infinite number of times since being hired. 

“As you wish, sir. And what about Carolina?” At this, the Director finally glanced up at him. But the Director’s full attention is a scary thing, and the Counselor was quickly regretting bringing up his daughter.  

“What about her?” The Counselor cleared his throat. 

“Are you going to keep her with Sigma? I believe that Agent  _ Maine  _ would be a much more suitable match for--” 

“No,” the Director said, a note of finality in the short syllable. “Sigma stays with Carolina.” The Counselor nodded reluctantly as the Director lowered his head again. “That is all, Counselor,” he dismissed, with a bored flick of the hand.

“Yes sir,” the Counselor said, and bowed--  _ bowed--  _ out of the room. 

What had become of his life?

 

* * *

 

TUCKER: Yo, Church. 

CHURCH: Yeah? What do you want? 

TUCKER: Just got the new Halo. Wanna try it out?

CABOOSE: Yes. 

TUCKER: Damn it! Why is Caboose even in this chat? 

CHURCH: You’re the one who made it. 

TUCKER: Aw, crap, you’re right. 

CHURCH: Relax, just give him the broken one. 

CABOOSE: Yes! I Love The Broken One! It Plays The Best!

TUCKER: Okay Caboose. So are you coming Church? 

CABOOSE: Yes. 

TUCKER: I said Church!

CHURCH: Yeah, just give me ten minutes. You getting pizza? 

TUCKER: Only if I can get the sniper rifle. 

CHURCH: In your fucking dreams.

TUCKER: >:(


	6. Best of Times, Worst of Times

Life was pretty good these days. Wash had been getting better at his job-- being able to spot a traffic violation, not getting lost on his patrol routes, and he even made some headway into his main case: the stabbing of Gabriel Smith. Wash had traced the man back an older brother somewhere on the east end of town and, after morosely delivering the news, obtained valuable information: Smith’s credit card records and recent transactions, his cell phone number and calls he’s made in the past month (all out to a blocked number) and the location of an apartment he had been hiding in. Wash knew he was getting close. He had even gotten his first paycheck the other day, and it had felt  _ amazing.  _ He couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t have to scrape together every penny to make the monthly rent. 

Not to mention, with the help of Donut, his grades had been rising steadily in all subjects. And, the best part of the week, on Tuesdays Wash would stop over at Coon’s Cafe. 

He hadn’t seen Maine all too much at work, ever since Maine was temporarily switched to the night shift, but he always managed to squeeze in a couple hours with his friend on Tuesday evenings. He would order his coffee (extra sweet, of course) and sit down at a table until the rest of the customers had left for the night. (He’s pretty sure sometimes Maine drives them out early). They would spend a couple hours engaged in a deep, lopsided conversation about… well, anything really-- although it was usually Wash who did the talking, and Maine would do his best to write responses on his notepad. 

They would discuss news (though neither of them were too into politics), recent happenings on patrol (turns out, Maine had some pretty crazy experiences), the Insurrectionist cases, how York and Carolina thought they were staying under-the-radar about their relationship (even though there was a betting pool going on between the rest of the Unit. Oddly enough, Wyoming seemed to be in the lead, betting that neither of them would actually admit their relationship), or how CT had  _ totally  _ cheated in last night’s poker game. They talked about the Reds and the Blues, and about the rumor going around about the new K9’s. They talked about Agent Texas, and her…  _ unique  _ relationship with the Director. 

They would talk about their families sometimes, but Maine didn’t delve too deep into his history. The most Wash had gotten out of him was that his parents were military-grade strict, and Maine didn’t exactly live up to their standards. How or why, Wash didn’t know. 

And then, one late night, after they had run out of things to talk about, a thought popped into Wash’s head. 

He studied Maine, casually taking a sip of his coffee. He shook his head, then frowned, debating. His stare must have lingered a little too long, because Maine actually went through the trouble of writing something down. He shoved his notepad in Wash’s face. 

_ What? _

Wash shook his head again and took another sip of coffee. 

“I was just wondering…” he hesitated, setting down his cup. Maine raised an impatient eyebrow. “Have you ever dated somebody?” he blurted out. 

Maine started, an odd expression crossing his face-- one Wash had never seen before. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. Tilted his head, scratched his ear, then straightened out again. Touched the tip of his pencil to the notepad, then lifted it again. Wash watched him, a little amused at how off-guard Maine had been taken by that question. Finally, Maine reluctantly wrote something down. 

_ Yes. Once.  _ Wash raised an eyebrow. 

“Really?” he asked, studying Maine again. It was hard to picture him with a girl, especially given his size. It was almost comical, really, to think of him side by side someone he practically dwarfed. “Who?” 

_ Does it matter?  _ Wash grinned, raising his hands in mock-surrender. 

“Okay, okay, no need to get testy. I was just wondering.” Maine hmph-ed and scribbled something else. 

_ What about you?  _ Wash shrugged, trying to think back. 

“There was a girl in highschool, I think. It… it didn’t work out,” he said, his eyebrows knit. 

_ Why not?  _

“I can’t exactly remember. I don’t think I was just really all that interested in her.” Maine looked at him quizzically, waiting for a follow-up. But that was all Wash could really remember, so he took another sip of his coffee. Maine glanced away, seemingly deep in thought.

“What?” It was Wash’s turn to ask. Maine fiddled with his pencil, touching it to the notepad and lifting it again. “Maine?” The big man sighed, giving up, and jotted something down really quick. 

_ I was sent to a military boarding school when I was young. I met somebody there.  _ Wash frowned, surprised at the sudden revelation. Maine always seemed to get uncomfortable when talking about his childhood. Wash debated whether to drop it, or press the matter. He didn’t want to push too far, but he also knew this might be his one chance to learn more about his friend. Eventually, curiosity won, and he tried to keep his tone casual when he asked, 

“What happened?” he said lowly, and as he watched a shadow pass over Maine’s face, Wash worried he made the wrong decision. He sat perfectly still as Maine wrote something down, but whatever it was, it didn’t take more than a few seconds. Maine turned around the notepad and showed it to Wash, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth.

_ He died.  _

Oh. 

“Oh,” Wash said intelligently, fighting to keep his tone casual (and failing miserably). “I’m sorry to hear that.” Maine nodded once and retracted the notepad, refusing to look at him. Wash racked his brain desperately for something more to say, but he couldn’t come up with anything that would sound good, and wouldn’t reveal the turmoil going on inside of him. 

In just two words, Maine had cut open his heart and laid it bare to Wash. The news was so uncharacteristic, so astonishing, so  _ vulnerable,  _ that it left Wash reeling.  _ Maine had a boyfriend _ . Oddly, Wash found irony in that fact. Just minutes before, he had trouble picturing Maine with a girlfriend. Maybe, deep down, he had known the truth.  

Wash vaguely remembered him writing about his parents, and how he had been kicked out due to ‘conflicting morals’. He supposed this was what Maine had been referring to. 

But not only did Maine have a boyfriend, that boyfriend had  _ died _ . To think of Maine in a relationship was difficult enough to imagine, if only because it required so much so much openness and communication. Wash knew though, he could see it on his friend’s face, that Maine had cherished the person he loved. And to know, that in the end, he had ultimately died? It was heartbreaking. 

Maine’s face remained passive and unemotional. But Wash knew how to see past just the face. A sudden impulse came over him, to comfort Maine. And almost as if his hands were under the control of his heart, one of them reached out and clasped Maine’s. Wash tried to ignore his burning face as Maine glanced up at him. But Maine didn’t move his hand, and Wash flashed back to that night in the hospital. Maine had touched his hand just like this, and they had stayed like that the rest of the night-- even after Wash, too, had fallen asleep. The touch had been warm and reassuring.  _ I’m here,  _ it had said.  _ I’m right here. I’m okay.  _ Wash hoped that’s what Maine could feel now. 

They stayed like that, simply staring at each other for a few minutes, Wash’s hand over his. Again, the smell of coffee and chocolate chip cookies wafted through the air. The shop was silent and dim, and everything was dulled compared to their table now.

But then Maine shifted in his chair a little, and Wash snapped back to reality. He blushed and cleared his throat. 

“I, um. It’s late, and I still have a paper to write,” he fumbled, lifting up his hand. He tried to ignore how oddly empty and cold it felt. “I should probably get going.” Maine seemed to snap back as well, stood up too. He grunted once, and Wash offered him an awkward smile. “I’ll try to catch you tomorrow before I leave work.” Maine nodded, and with that, Wash quickly left the coffee shop, the bell tinkling behind him and his footsteps pounding to the beat of his heart. 

 

* * *

 

Carolina woke up alone. 

This wasn’t anything new. It had been a long time since she woke up next to somebody else, so long that she had gotten used to her cold feet, to the small twin bed, the covers all bunched up underneath her arms in place of of a body. 

And yet… it still didn’t feel right. Her bed still felt…  _ empty.  _ Cold. Like it was missing something. 

Or some _ body.  _

She closed her eyes and rolled over. Her alarm clock wouldn’t go off for another hour, but she had the sinking feeling she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep easily. Instead, she retreated back into a memory of last night, when York had invited her out to the cafe after work again. 

 

“ _ You’re kidding.” Carolina laughed and took another sip of her coffee.  _

_ “Nope,” York said, grinning and taking pride in getting her to finally laugh.  _

_ “Twenty shots?” Carolina asked, disbelief on her face.  _

_ “Yep. You would not  _ believe  _ the kind of hangover I had the next day.” She laughed again, shaking her head and glancing down at her cup.  _

 

Carolina sighed, back in her cold bed. The cafe had been so warm, so bright, so open then. But it wasn’t just the coffee, or the relaxing atmosphere, or Wash’s quiet mutterings with Maine from a table in the corner that had put her at ease… It was York. 

It was because York had been there that she felt like she could truly relax-- for the first time in a while. Her job had been pretty stressful lately, dealing with the new recruit and all, but even as she and York were talking about it, she felt a burden lift off of her. She could separate herself from her job and finally…  _ let go.  _ It was incredible. 

And it was because of York. 

In a way, it had  _ always _ been because of York. 

 

_ “You know, you really shouldn’t smoke,” Carolina warned him, playfully twirling the lighter in her hands. She flicked the cap on and off, watching with amusement the way the man’s eyes flickered from her to the dancing flame. “It’s bad for your health.” The man seemed to snap back at her words, and returned a playful smile.  _

_ “I’m sure there are a lot of things bad for my health.” Carolina studied him. She wasn’t sure exactly why she had approached him, but something (she couldn’t place was it was. Curiosity? Attraction?) drew her towards that lonely man on the bar.  _

_ She hadn’t exactly been on the lookout lately, but the man wasn’t entirely unattractive, so she decided to roll with it.  _

_ “Lot of things, huh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and shutting the lid again. The flame’s reflection disappeared from his eyes. He turned fully and regarded her with a hesitant smile.  _

_ “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, gesturing to the stool next to him. She grinned.  _

_ “Please.”  _

 

“Errera,” Carolina muttered subconsciously as she rolled over. She exhaled, and wisps of the memory escaped from her lips. She sighed as it drifted away and pulled the blankets on her bed up to her ears. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could pretend she didn’t feel the emptiness in her arms. 

Her alarm, unsurprisingly, went off an hour later. It was a long hour, full of tossing and turning and cold feet and of him.  _ York.  _

Carolina blinked once, twice, three times and sat up, stretching her arms above her head. Cobwebs of forgotten dreams trailed off her shoulders and clung to the pillow, and she brushed them off as she slid off her bed. She crossed the room to turn off her alarm, but her eyes were caught by the face in the mirror. 

Her startlingly bright green eyes glared at her from underneath a curtain of red. Gray bags hung underneath her eyelids, and her brows furrowed down naturally. Carolina sighed and reached up, prodding at the crease they formed above her nose, trying in vain to lift them. The corners of her mouth turned down in a frown, and she poked at those too, but no matter how she contorted her face, she couldn’t make an expression other than vague irritation. She shook her head and turned away. It was hopeless. 

Carolina yawned, grabbing the white tank top, black coat and pants that hung on the back of her door. She threw on the clothes quickly and headed out into the kitchen. 

Breakfast consisted of an apple and a protein shake. She spent the short amount of time it took to eat reviewing the other agent’s reports. North and Wyoming always had lengthy reports, while York’s reports always had a joke or two hidden in the middle of a long paragraph (she took those out before submitting it). CT and Wash’s reports were both oddly similar in structure, succinctly concluding the day’s events in a few passages. Maine’s was even shorter, written out in textbook format, and there were hardly any mistakes at all. South hadn’t even bothered to turn hers in. 

Technically, it wasn’t her job to submit the reports anymore, since Officer  _ Texas  _ was officially head of the unit now. But for some odd reason, York and the rest of the unit insisted on giving them to Carolina instead, and Texas simply never brought it up. And so it was. 

After breakfast, Carolina wrangled her messy hair into a tight ponytail, allowing a few wispy strands of red to hang loose around her face. 

 

_ York brushed a few strands out of her eyes, his blue eyes staring into hers. His face was close, too close, and she felt something flutter like fire in her heart. He hesitated, then smiled.  _

_ “I like it red,” he told her. “It suits you.”  _

 

Carolina grabbed her bag on her way out the door, and threw in her pager, iPad, wallet, and phone into one of its many pockets. Her keys jangled and rattled as she jammed them into the lock and twisted it shut. She hopped in her car, an aqua prius that was a present from her father, and pulled out of the driveway, with ten minutes to spare. 

 

* * *

 

“Carolina? Ma’am?” Carolina glanced up from her desk to see the nervous face of the station secretary, Fillis. 

“Yes?” The secretary pushed up her glasses along the bridge of her nose. “What is it?” 

“There’s…” Fillis trailed off. “There’s a  _ demonstration  _ in the training room that I think you might want to see.” Carolina narrowed her eyes. 

“Why? I’m busy.” Fillis opened her mouth and cleared her throat. 

“It’s Officer Texas.” Carolina jerked her head up. “And Omega.” She jumped up, sending her chair rolling backwards, and gritted her teeth. 

“Show me.” 

 

Carolina stormed into the observation room, joining South, Wash and North by the glass window. 

"What’s going on here?” she demanded, glaring out through the panels onto the training room floor. “There’s no training sessions on the schedule.” 

“It’s impromptu,” South informed her, and Carolina might have chided her for not turning in her report, but just then she registered who all was on the floor. 

“So she really did get a K9,” Wash said, a note of awe in his voice. South snorted. 

“Not that she’ll need it.” He nodded in agreement. 

“Both of you, can it,” Carolina snapped as she saw York, alongside Maine and Wyoming, squaring off against Tex and Omega. They were all wearing protective pads, but that did little to ease her worries. Tex was a formidable opponent-- Carolina knew it from experience.

“I think someone might be getting a little concerned about their position,” South muttered. Carolina snarled and whirled on her. 

“Hey South, pay attention. You might actually learn something if you stop running your mouth for a minute.” Wash snickered, and South turned to glare at him. 

 

Tex and Omega were a powerful duo, that much was obvious. Simply her laid-back stance and the doberman that sat at her feet exuded a confidence that filled the whole room. 

Yok hadn’t actually seen her in action that much, but he wasn’t ignorant. Tex was good. So good that she had even leapt to the top of the Director’s list in the first few weeks of being employed. So good that she had even beat Carolina. 

“Okay guys, this one should be easy,” York started, always the hopeless optimist. “Let’s just play it by the book. Maine, how about you flank left, and then--” Before he could even finish his sentence, Maine leaped forward, fist extended… and was promptly smacked back Tex. York swallowed, taken aback by the sheer ease of her block. It was a sloppy blow, sure, but it's rather hard to deflect two hundred pounds of pure muscle. 

“Or you could just charge in and get immobilized first,” he sighed. “Okay, Wyoming, let’s stick together and--” But, just as before, Wyoming charged in prematurely, and Omega jumped up, placing two paws square on his chest, knocking him to the floor. York groaned and mentally face-palmed. 

“What’s the story? Am I the only one on this team that knows how to talk?” 

“I don’t think talking is your problem,” somebody said from behind him. York turned-- and found himself face to face with Tex. 

Uh oh. 

He didn’t even see her fist as it connected with his face. 

 

Wash winced as Maine hit the ground for the fifth time. It was an unfair fight, three against one person and a dog, and yet they were still losing. Wash had no idea Tex was so strong, and suddenly he felt very justified in being afraid of her. 

The three regrouped on the floor, and York shouted out some orders. It was clear that neither Wyoming nor Maine were listening, however, and both were promptly sent flying.

Wash resisted the urge to bang his head on the wall. Maine was being so  _ reckless,  _ so hasty... it was abnormal. Wash wondered what was up with his friend today. 

_ He died.  _

Wash felt his face redden as he flashed back to the cafe last night. The words had been written so clearly and concisely on that tiny little notepad that Wash remembered every detail of them. The tail on the ‘H’ that tied over into the ‘e’. The tiny blot on the tip of the ‘d’ that was so visible to Wash that he could see Maine’s hesitation as he wrote those two syllables. The stone on his friend’s face, but the raw emotion in his eyes. And Wash’s hand, on top of Maine’s-- 

Who just got knocked back to the floor.

Maine jumped up behind Tex, managing to get in a single blow before she hauled off and slammed him in the face. Omega added insult to injury, running around behind Maine as he stumbled backwards and effectively tripping him. 

Tex rounded on Wyoming next, who obviously still had trouble with knowing how to actually  _ hit  _ a person. He swung at her twice, and missed both blows. He stumbled past Tex on the third try, and she used his momentum to spin him around and slam him face-first into the wall. 

York, with a defeated sigh, charged after Tex last. He ducked under her first swing, and barely managed to avoid a lunge from Omega. He caught her fist as Tex attacked him, but she simply grabbed his arm with her other hand and kicked at his legs. York did a flip in the air, and then landed on his back five feet away from her. Omega snarled and retreated back by Tex’s feet. 

 

“Wow…” Wash muttered. North snorted. 

“Okay,  _ that _ was pretty impressive.” Carolina simply crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. It  _ was _ a little amusing to see Maine, York, and Wyoming getting their asses kicked… but she was still on edge. 

 

York sighed and pulled himself up off the floor. His whole body was aching, and he was pretty sure there was a bruise forming on his face. 

He limped his way over to a table in the corner and glanced at the clock. He groaned. There were still five more minutes in the session, and the  _ worst _ part was always last. Maine and Wyoming joined him shortly, neither uttering a word, but their swollen egos were written all over their faces. York wanted to say something-- encourage them, make a game plan-- but he knew they wouldn’t listen, so he busied himself getting ready for the final round. Paintball. 

 

“Ugh, I hate the paint,” Wash groaned. South nodded. 

“Tell me about it. Stings like a bitch.” 

_ I wouldn’t know,  _ Carolina thought to herself. But when she received dirty looks from everyone in the room, she realized she had actually said it aloud. She shrugged. 

“It’s not bad if you don’t let it hit you,” she added. Wrong thing to say. Wash rolled his eyes and turned back toward the window. 

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Carolina wanted to say more, but just then, the round started. 

 

The first round of paintball wasn’t particularly exciting. Neither was the second or third. It was simply more of the same-- no teamwork, and Tex kicking everybody’s asses. York got punched in the balls a few times, Wyoming continuously got nailed in the head, Maine got plastered against the wall once or twice… the usual. Even  _ Omega  _ managed to dodge the blasts of paint. 

In the third round, Maine and Wyoming finally got their shit together and decided to work as a team. The three of them devised a foolproof plan, where Wyoming would be a distraction, while Maine and York flank left and right, respectively. Then, all three would attack at once. 

Needless to say, it didn’t work. 

They tried charging head on, but that only ended with a burst of paint in each face. 

York tried to separate Omega from Tex while Maine and Wyoming would attack.   
That didn’t work either. 

“After eight rounds, the score is zero-eight, advantage Texas.” Fillis announced over the loudspeaker, in an amused voice. York snorted and reloaded his gun. 

“Yeah, ‘advantage’ is the right word, Fillis,” he called to her, glancing to the observation room. With a start, he realized that Carolina was leaning up against the glass, watching them with a frown on her face. He offered her a small smile and a helpless ‘what-can-you-do’ shrug. She didn’t even blink. 

An odd clicking sound turned his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maine and Wyoming exchange something. He couldn’t tell what it was, but the way they loaded their guns and the grim look on each face was enough to worry him. 

“What the hell are you guys doing?” York hissed. He got no reply. Instead, the two lined up with him and raised their guns. York turned towards Wyoming, ready to tell him off. But before he could, Maine began to fire-- live rounds. 

Carolina unfolded her arms, jaw dropping. 

“What? Are they using live rounds on the training floor?” Wash exclaimed, pressing up against the glass.  _ Maine, what are you doing?! _

“Looks like it,” CT responded. Carolina glanced at her. She hadn’t even noticed her come in. 

“That’s against protocol!” Wash said desperately. “They’re going to kill her!” CT shrugged, oddly calm despite the situation. 

“Probably.” He shook his head in disbelief. 

“Someone should get the Director!” CT snorted at that, gesturing towards the floor. 

“The Director? Who do you think gave them the ammo?” 

“Watch your mouth CT.” Carolina interjected before anyone else could say something. CT didn’t even turn to look at her, so Carolina ended up glaring at the back of her head. The Director might be an asshole, but he was in charge of the whole department,  _ and  _ he was her dad. Carolina might have even said more, but the gunshots drew her attention back to the floor. 

 

Instinctively, York ducked and backed up behind Maine and Wyoming. 

“Wh--” he started to say, but the two officers fired off another round. Tex began to sprint around the arena, ducking and rolling around the bullets. “Hey, back off man!” York said, swatting at Maine. The giant simply shrugged him off and continued shooting. York gritted his teeth. At this rate, someone was going to get hurt. Most likely Texas. 

Omega was backed into the corner, snarling. Every so often, the dog would leap forward, trying to get at Texas, but he was forced back by a stray shot. 

York shook his head as Tex narrowly dodged a bullet. 

“Enough of this,” he muttered. He shoved at Maine’s back, sending the man stumbling forward. His shot buried itself in the floor, and York took the opportunity to jostle Wyoming’s arm just as he was firing. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could do, and it would buy Tex some time, at least. 

Maine grunted and began to pick himself off the the floor. York quickly kicked his gun out of his hands, and sent it skittering across the floor towards Omega. He turned again to deal with Wyoming, but he found himself face to face with  _ Texas.  _ Or more accurately, Texas’s gun.

_ “ _ Woah! Hey, I’m trying to help,” he explained quickly, raising both hands in the air. She simply blew a loose strand of blonde hair out of her face and narrowed her eyes. 

“I don’t care,” she said. York backed up in surprise. “ _ Never _ abandon your team.” He shook his head, confused and desperate and panicked all at the same time. 

“I’m just--” Suddenly, another shot fired, and Tex stumbled forward, blood spurting out from her shoulder. She grunted in pain, and York instinctively threw out his hands to catch her. She tried to resist him, tightening her grip on the gun. “Hey, don’t--” he tried to warn her. 

From the corner, Omega let out a ferocious bark, and bounded forward. No longer afraid of the bullets, it seemed, the dog knocked over Maine and, muzzle foaming, jumped right for York. Tex’s eyes widened.

“Omega, no!” she shouted. “Stand down!” He didn’t listen. She tried to push York away, but her shoulder twinged, and instead she fell forward. York whipped his head around just in time to see Omega’s sharp claws and feral fangs-- 

“No-- argh!”

 

Carolina audibly gasped as the dog hit York and began to claw at him. She moved faster than she ever had before, reaching for the door to the training room. 

“ _Dammit!”_ she heard Wash curse behind her.   
“Fillis!” Carolina shouted. “We need a medic to the training floor! Now!” She barely registered the secretary nod and race out of the room. 

Carolina threw open the door and sprinted onto the mat. Tex had pushed herself up, and was trying to pull Omega off of York. Despite her attempts to help, Carolina simply shoved Tex out of the way, and with great strength, heaved the dog off as well. He growled and bit her hand, but she ignored the pain, and tossed him aside. 

“York? York!” Carolina cried, leaning over his limp body. 

York was breathing shallow, rattling breaths, his face was slick with dark red blood. Bite marks decorated his forehead. There were ribbons of flesh where his cheeks were supposed to be, and, she realized with a sickening lurch, the dog had scratched all the way to the  _ bone.  _

“Oh god,” she muttered, hands hovering over his face. The scratches ran up and down his face and his eye--  _ god, his eye.  _

It was glassy white and covered in  deep red. The pupil floated unnaturally towards the top, gazing blankly up at the ceiling. Chunks of it were missing, and a clear liquid oozed out of the corner. Then, as Carolina watched, York gave a horrible, shuddering breath, and his good eye rolled back into his head.  

_ “York!” _

* * *

__

“He didn’t listen to me,” Tex said, her arms crossed and teeth gritted. The Counselor leisurely looked up from his tablet. 

“I’m sorry?” he asked, feigning innocence. Tex slammed her hand into the wall, satisfied with how high it made him jump. 

“You know what I mean!  _ Omega.  _ He didn’t listen to me. I told him to stand down, but--” The Counselor interrupted her. 

“I assume you’re referring to the incident with Officer York?” Tex nodded, glaring at him. “Yes, that was… unfortunate.” 

“What the hell happened?!” she shouted at him. He blinked. 

“I’m sure you’re aware, all K9’s are trained to instinctively protect their masters--” Tex shook her head. 

“No. This was different. He didn’t  _ listen.”  _ The Counselor gazed blankly at her and opened his mouth. 

“Well--” 

“I don’t want him.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I  _ said,  _ I don’t want him,” Tex repeated, folding her arms. “I can’t have a K9 that doesn’t obey me.” The Counselor blinked. 

“Of course, you  _ are  _ able to use him at your leisure--” 

“Fine. Keep him in the kennel. But I am  _ not _ taking him out in the field,” Tex spat. The Counselor hesitated, but after seeing the look on her face, he nodded. 

“Very well.” Tex scowled and whipped around, reaching for the door. “Officer Texas?” She rolled her eyes and paused, but didn’t turn around. “I believe the Director would like to see you…” Tex shook her head in disgust. 

“I don’t care,” she said, and stomped out of the room, making sure to slam the door shut on her way out. 

* * *

 

COUNSELOR: Test successful. 


	7. Progress

“Maine! Catch!” Wash shouted, tossing his spare pistol to the man. Maine caught it and quickly spun around, slamming the barrel into a thug’s face. Wash ducked under a punch and kicked a criminal of his own into the wall. He grabbed the guy’s shirt and flipped him around so his face was pressed against the wall. The thug, who seemed no older than twenty, struggled hard, but Wash yanked his arms around his back and clicked the handcuffs cleanly into place. 

He felt hands on his shoulders, and somebody yanked him backwards off of the thug. They rolled around on the concrete, each fighting to be on top. Wash swung wildly, managing to catch his attacker in the jaw. Seeing his opportunity, Wash pushed the guy off of him, and straddled him. He reared back and landed two hard blows to his face. The guy groaned, out cold on the ground, and Wash pulled out his handcuffs. 

Maine rammed another guy into a dumpster, punching him twice in the gut, before flipping him around and slapping on a pair of handcuffs as well. 

Wash panted and straightened up. He glanced at Maine breathlessly, and gave him a smile. Maine hardly seemed to be out of breath, but Wash was almost doubled over. He wiped his mouth and reached down toward the thug on the ground. 

“So,” he said, picking the guy up by the wrists. “Do you think they’ll all fit in one car?” Maine snorted and threw the dumpster thug over his shoulder. 

_ We’ll make them fit.  _ Wash snorted. 

“Suppose so--  _ Maine!”  _

He barely had time to register the glint of steel as it hurtled through the air, before he dropped the guy he was holding and lunged forward. Wash shoved Maine to the side (which was no easy feat), and caught the wrist of the guy who had appeared out of nowhere. 

Wash let his instinct take over, twisting the wrist, and chopping at the thug’s elbow. The guy’s arm buckled, and Wash rolled with it. He vaguely recognized the technique Connie had taught him in his motions… but the rest? He couldn’t recreate it if he tried. He grabbed the back of the guy’s neck, and slammed it down towards his knee. The guy, stunned, cried out in pain and stumbled back as Wash released him. Taking the opportunity, Wash lashed out again, landing two hits right into the thug’s chest. The guy gasped and fell to his knees, dropping the knife he held. Wash twisted him around, and reached for his belt… but his hands hit empty air. He looked to Maine helplessly. 

“I’m out of handcuffs.” Maine snorted and grabbed the last pair he had, tossing it to Wash. “Thanks.” He snapped them on, then pulled the thug up. Wash glanced at the guy he was holding, then at two Maine had slung over his shoulders, and the two others slumped on the ground. He sighed. 

“We’re definitely going to need another car.” Maine grunted.  _ “No,  _ we’re not putting them in the trunk.” Wash unclicked the radio from his belt and pressed the speaker button. 

“Command?” he said, leaning the thug against his knee. “Can you send another cruiser to our location?” 

“Sure thing W--” 

“You gotta say  _ please.”  _ Wash sighed as a new voice came on, and raised an eyebrow at Maine. 

“Hello York. Can you  _ please  _ send another cruiser to our location?” He heard laughter on the other end of the line, and a heavy sigh from Command. 

“Okay, now say ‘I love York so much, he is the greatest cop ever and I will willingly let him eat all my food at lunch tomorrow.” Wash groaned. 

“When do you get cleared for the field again?” 

“Not for a while.” 

“Goddamn it,” Wash muttered, allowing himself a deep breath before speaking. “Do I really have to?” 

“Just say the words man.” 

“Fine. I love York so much, he is the greatest cop ever and I will willingly let him eat all my food at lunch tomorrow.” Maine grunted in the background, and Wash rolled his eyes pointedly as he waited for a response. 

_ Click.  _ “Alright, I got it.” Wash furrowed his brows.

“Got wh-- wait, did you record that?!” 

“He’s all yours, Command.” 

“York!” 

“Wash, a nearby cruiser is on it’s way. Hang tight.” 

“ _ Yo--  _ goddamn it!” 

 

North pulled up ten minutes later, leaning out the passenger side window. 

“Somebody call for a ride?” he shouted, grinning. Wash stood up from where he was leaning against the alley wall. 

“Hey North,” he said tiredly, dragging the two thugs that didn’t manage to fit into their one car behind him. “Sorry to interrupt your patrol.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” North dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Seems like you guys had your hands full.” Wash turned to look at Maine, who had picked one of the guys up and tossed in him the backseat. 

“I guess you could say that.” 

“Well, hop in. I’m supposed to pass by the station anyways.” Maine slammed the back door to the car. 

“You all set?” Wash asked him, and Maine nodded. “We’ll see you back at the station.” Wash slid into the passenger’s seat of North’s car, duly noting how unnaturally  _ clean  _ it was. North put the car into gear, and pulled out of the alley. One of the thug’s groaned in the back set. 

“So,” North said, once they were on the road. “What’s this all about?” Wash sighed and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Maine and I were looking into that stabbing. You know, Gabriel Smith?” 

“Yeah, the Insurrectionist thing?” Wash nodded and pulled out a water bottle from the glove compartment. 

“You mind?” 

“No, help yourself.” Wash gratefully unsealed the cap and knocked back about a half the bottle. 

“That’s the one,” Wash confirmed once he finished, and wiped his mouth. 

“You’re still getting leads? It’s been at  _ least _ a month.” Wash shrugged. 

“This guy has been around town for a while. There probably isn’t a building here that he doesn’t have some connection to.” 

“Think that has something to do with why he was stabbed?” North asked, checking his mirror and turning a corner. 

“Probably. Must have seen something he shouldn’t, and somebody killed him for it,” Wash crinkled the bottle he was holding, and set it down in the cup holder on the door. 

“The Insurrectionists?” Wash hesitated, something occurring to him. 

“North,” he started. North glanced at him. “You’ve been working with an Insurrection case, too, right?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“A murder?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Can I see your file?” North raised an eyebrow.

“Uh, sure, if you want. It’s on my tablet.” He gestured to the tablet on the dashboard. 

“Thanks,” Wash said, reaching for it. He swiped the screen and a bunch of files appeared. He clicked on the one obviously labeled ‘Ins. Murder’, and scrolled through the list of documented killings, either of or by Insurrectionist members. He chose one at random, and scanned through it. 

_ Gregory Travis _ ,  _ Age 23  _

_ Affiliation: Lezano Inc.  _

_ Last seen: Charon Industries Regional Center _

_ Known relations: N/A _

_ COD: One stab wound to the lower back, puncturing the left area of the stomach _

 

Wash clicked on another. 

 

_ Lewis Wachira, Age 42 _

_ Affiliation: Disela Industries _

_ Last seen: Blood Gulch Public Library _

_ Known Relations: Amanda Wachira, Age 34 _

_ COD: One stab wound to the lower back, puncturing the left ribcage and lower left region of stomach _

 

Wash frowned, and clicked on another document. 

 

_ Myracle Johnson, Age 38 _

_ Affiliation: Samuel Technology and Manufacturing _

_ Last seen: Samuel Technology and Manufacturing _

_ Known Relations: Lezziah Johnson, Age 8, Peter Johnson, Age 41 _

_ COD: One stab wound to the lower back, puncturing the lower right area of the stomach _

 

Wash skimmed a few more reports, and found similar causes of death for each. He narrowed his eyes, and pulled out his own phone. He had taken pictures of his case file, and he scrolled through those now.   
“You’ve looked into all of these, right?” he asked North. 

“Every last one of ‘em,” North confirmed, giving him a side glance. “What’s up?” 

“Have you checked out the bodies?” Wash started, scrolling through the pictures on his phone.

“Yeah, I have,” North said slowly. He turned another corner and pulled up to a stoplight.

“They all have one stab wound to the lower back?” 

“Yes.” Wash sighed. 

“North, turn around. I need to go to the hospital.” The driver looked startled. 

“What? Why?” 

“I need to go to the morgue.” North looked at him, exasperated. He studied Wash for a second, then threw up his hands. 

“At least tell me where you’re going with this!” Wash nodded. 

“I will, once we get there. I promise.” North sighed and shook his head, but he switched his blinker anyways. 

“Fine. But you owe me one.” 

“Of course,” Wash said, glancing down at his phone. Right on cue, a message popped up from Maine. 

 

MAINE: ????

WASH: Change of plans. I need to go to the morgue. Can you take care of the guys in your car?

MAINE: ??????????

WASH: Please?   
MAINE: …

MAINE: Fine. But you owe me one. 

WASH: Put it on my tab

 

* * *

 

 

“Excuse me,” Wash said to the lady at the front desk. “I need to see your dead bodies.” 

“What my partner  _ means _ to say,” North cut in as the lady looked at them, horrified. He held up his badge. “Is that we’d like to visit the morgue. Please. It’s police business.” She hesitated, but nodded and stood up. 

“Um, follow me, sirs,” she said, leading them down a long hallway. 

“Thank you,” North said, pocketing his badge. He gave Wash a pointed glance, who only shrugged. They followed the lady down the hall. 

“Doctor Gates?” she called, knocking on the doors. “These men are requesting to see the cadavers.” She pushed open the door. “Doctor Gates?” 

“Coming!” a voice called from the back of the room. A tall man appeared from behind a corner. “Why hello, Lizzie,” he said, flashing her a winning smile. He pulled off a glove and offered a hand to Wash. “Officers,” he greeted, shaking North’s hand as well. “How can I help you?” Wash pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

“Can we see these three bodies?” The doctor took his phone and squinted at it. 

“Of course,” he sighed, sounding oddly exasperated, and held out the phone.

“Is there a problem?” Wash asked, taking the phone back. The doctor glanced at him, startled. 

“No, no problem,” he said, turning around quickly. “This way, please.” Wash exchanged a look with North, and then followed the doctor further into the room. 

“So, might I ask, what’s this about?” Doctor Gates asked as he scanned freezers as casually as if he were browsing at the library. 

“It’s just an investigation we’re conducting,” North said simply. The doctor stopped at a freezer. 

“Right, of course,” he said, punching a code into a keypad and pulling open the door. “Number 235, Lewis Wachira.” Wash and North backed up as the doctor pulled out a shelf. 

A man laid on the shelf, his whole body covered by a sheet. The doctor carefully folded half of it down to reveal a pale white face, with thin brown hair on top. The man’s eyes were closed. The smell of formaldehyde filled the room, and Wash might have covered his nose had he not been so preoccupied with something else. 

He was busy glancing a little further  _ down  _ the sheet, where there was an unnatural bulge in the fabric. 

“Oooh, yeah.” Doctor Gates said, clicking his teeth. “Forgot about that.” Wash cleared his throat and looked away. 

“How does that even happen?” he asked, more to express his confusion than to actually get an answer. The doctor shrugged. 

“A quick case of rigor mortis,” he said. “If the guy had it while he died, the fluids in his body wouldn’t have drained and he would have…  _ kept it up,  _ let’s say.” Wash shook his head to hide his embarrassment. “Gives a whole new meaning to  _ mourning wood,”  _ Doctor Gates added, bending over and laughing. North gave him a reproachful look, however, and he quickly straightened up. “Too soon? Oh well.” 

“Help me check over him,” Wash said to North, pulling on the latex gloves. 

“I’m still not entirely sure what I’m looking for,” North replied, pulling on his own pair of gloves. 

“Just… any marks or injuries out of the ordinary,” Wash told him, a little impatiently. He pulled out a hand from underneath the sheet, and examined it. North shrugged and followed his lead, combing over the back of the victim’s neck. Doctor Gates stood watching off to the side with his arms crossed, an odd look on his face. 

It took them about five minutes to search the entire body, but there was nothing unusual other than the stab wound and the… you know. 

Wash finally looked up after examining the right foot and sighed. The Doctor unfolded his arms. 

“Will that be all?” Wash shook his head. 

“We need to see Gregory Travis now, please.” North sighed as Gates shrugged. 

“Right this way.” 

 

They spent the next half hour checking over the bodies of Gregory Travis and Myracle Johnson. Both bodies were a bit more  _ normal _ than the first, and neither showed any unusual marks. Wash was never more grateful when the Doctor carefully placed the sheet over the top of Myracle’s face. 

“Sorry you didn’t find anything,” Gates said flippantly, pushing the body back into the freezer. Wash only shook his head. 

“Actually, that’s what I was hoping for.” 

“Wash, can you please tell me what we’re doing?” North sighed, pulling off his gloves and dumping them in the trashcan. Wash pulled off his own gloves and nodded. 

“Yeah, sure. But first…” he turned around, looking for something. Finally his eyes landed on the Doctor. “Hey, would you mind standing here for a second?” Gates looked startled. 

“Um. Why?” 

“Just come here.” He sighed and rolled his eyes, but joined Wash nevertheless. 

“Okay,” Wash said, turning the man so he was facing the opposite direction. “Picture the scenario. Let’s say that Gregory Travis walking home from the library, right?” North nodded. 

“He usually takes a cab, but that night he decided to walk home.” 

“Right. And this time, he has to take the alleyway. Now, imagine I’m the attacker. We’re in the shadows, but it’s still a pretty public place. Any little noise could attract attention.” The doctor sighed. 

“Is there a point to all this?” 

“I’m getting to it,” Wash told him impatiently. “I would want to come up from  _ behind  _ the man--” Wash moved up behind the doctor. “--cover his mouth--” He covered the doctor’s mouth. “--and stab him.” He imitated this as well. The doctor sighed again. 

“Blargh,” he said sarcastically. Wash released him and stepped back. 

“Easy...” 

“But?” North asked. 

“ _ But,  _ this would have left marks on the man’s mouth. Any attempt at all to silence him would have, in fact, left marks.” North frowned and touched a hand to his chin. 

“So he didn’t grab him. 

“Right,” Wash confirmed. “But, fortunately, the alley has a  _ lot  _ of hiding places.” He watched as realization dawned on North’s face. 

“He could have thrown the knife.” Wash nodded. 

“The victims were all murdered basically the same way: a stab wound to the lower back. But,” he added. “It’s never in exactly the same place--” 

“An inconsistency only a knife-thrower would have,” North finished. 

“Exactly.” The doctor cleared his throat slyly. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Wash frowned and turned to look at him. 

“What?” The doctor sighed. 

“What if they  _ weren’t  _ all killed by the same person? A height difference could easily account for--” Wash shook his head. 

“From there, it’s all forensics. The depth of the knife, the type, the width of the blade. They had been factoring in a closer range, yes. But the forensics team determined that it was still the same person. Except…” 

“Except?” North pressed. Wash pulled out his phone, and showed it to him. On the screen was a picture of the man he had been assigned to: Gabriel Smith. 

“Gabriel Smith had bruises on his knuckles.” Wash said. “Meaning he fought his attacker.” North furrowed his brows. 

“But a knife thrower wouldn’t be within attacking range of his victim…” he said. 

“So who was he fighting?” 

“Maybe the murderer was careless and got too close?” The doctor suggested. Wash shook his head. 

“I don’t think so. This murderer had been very careful to dispose of any evidence in his previous killings.” 

“He could have been fighting someone else, a third party,” North spoke up. “He won, and then once the third party was gone, the murderer took his chance.” Wash nodded and studied the photograph. 

“I think you’re right.” 

“But what about an accomplice?” the doctor piped up again. 

“It’s possible, but unlikely. The murderer hadn’t had any signs of an accomplice before.” 

“So not only are we looking for a skilled knife thrower, but also an unknown third party that probably got a man killed?” North summarized. “How are we going to find either of them?” Wash sighed. 

“Two steps forward, one step back,” he said and turned to the doctor. “Thanks for your help, Doctor Gates.” The doctor flashed him a toothy smile, and gestured to the door. 

“Please. Call me Isaac.” Wash nodded to him, and began to make his way back through the cold room. 

* * *

 

“...avid? David?  _ David!”  _ Wash snorted and jerked his head up. 

“Hm? Yes, what?” He blinked, processing the face of his physics teacher leaning over him sternly. 

“I’ll remind you, Mr. Washington, that you are not  _ required _ to take this class. You may leave at anytime.” Wash quickly shook his head. 

“No ma’am. Sorry ma’am. It’s… it’s been a long weekend.” His teacher hpmhed and straightened up, glaring at him down the tip of her nose. 

“Well. It’s certainly not my problem if you decided to… to  _ party  _ all weekend and face the consequences later.” she spat at him. 

“No! I didn’t-- I wasn’t  _ partying--”  _

“But you’re needed in the Student Department.” Wash blinked. 

“What? Why?” She sighed. 

“How should I know? Now go on! Get out!” He jumped up and grabbed his bookbag. 

“Y-yes ma’am,” he stuttered and, as his classmates snickered in the back, he left the room.

 

MInutes later, Wash found himself knocking on the door to the Student Financial Resources department office. 

“Come in,” somebody said from inside. Wash gently pushed open the door to reveal a small, dimly lit room. There were pictures all over the wall, and plants shoved in the corner-- which he assumed were meant to seem comforting. 

“Hi, I’m David Washington… you wanted to see me?” A man sitting at his desk looked up at Wash and frowned. 

“David… yes. Have a seat.” Wash maneuvered around a file cabinet, and sat down on the small plastic chair by the man’s desk. “I’m Robert Bradley,” the man introduced himself. “It’s nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand, which Wash took hesitantly. 

“Um, it’s nice to meet you too,” the man sat back in his char. Wash shifted in his seat. “So, what is this about?” Mr. Bradley sighed and opened a drawer in his desk. He shuffled through stacks of papers for a minute or two before finally extracting a bent manilla folder. It was upside down, but Wash could make out his name on the top. Bradley flipped it open and pulled out a sheet of paper, skimming it over before handing it to Wash. 

“David…” he started. “When was the last time you made your student tuition payments?” Wash jerked his head up, eyes narrowing. 

“I… just last month, I think.” Mr. Bradley gestured to the paper, and Wash continued to read it. 

There was a chart on it, documenting each transaction Wash had made with the college. For the first two years, Wash had made every due just fine, but starting about a half a year ago, his payments began to drop… until there was no record of him making the last few payments. 

“I…” Wash started. “I don’t know, I’m sure that I have enough to pay these two…” Mr. Bradley sighed. 

“David--” 

“It’s just Wash,” Wash muttered distractedly. 

“Okay,  _ Wash.  _ We are not strangers to situations like this. Many students have run out of funding before you. Now, we have a plan set up to integrate you--” 

_ “You’re kicking me out?”  _ Wash asked desperately. “But I’m sure I have enough to pay it now--” Mr. Bradley shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, Wash. You’ve already missed two payments. Not to mention your grades are… less than perfect.” 

“I can pull up my grades!” Wash panicked. “I swear! And I can make up the payments too--” 

“Wash,” Bradley interrupted firmly. Wash shut his mouth. “I know it’s hard for you to hear. Now, I’m willing to ask for a stay until the end of the semester, but I can’t promise anything.” Wash gaped at him, at a loss for words. “And I want to see you raise those grades.” He nodded quickly. 

“Yes, of course.” Mr. Bradley took the paper back from him. 

“Alright then. You’re free to go back to your classes.” 

“Right.” 

“I’ll see you again in a few weeks about that stay.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Goodbye Wash.” 

“Yeah.” Wash stood up slowly from his chair, and took a step with shaky legs. Mr. Bradley watched him with a pitying smile as Wash took another step, and then another. And before Wash knew it, he was out the door and running,  _ running  _ far away. He rammed through the building doors and the chilly air hit him full blast. But he was still running. He didn’t know exactly where to go, but he had no classes the rest of the day, so Wash ran straight off the campus. 

He ran all the way to the bus stop, but the next one wouldn’t come for at least another hour. So he just kept going, turning off the main street and onto a side road. He followed that until the town began to build up, and he got deeper and deeper into the middle of the city. 

There was a small park in the middle of it all, and Wash found his way there. He crossed streets haphazardly, cutting off cars, bikers and pedestrians alike. He passed between dark alleyways, and if there  _ was _ a murderer hiding in the shadows somewhere, he wouldn’t have even been able to touch Wash. 

Once the brick and metal changed to green, he finally began to slow down. He slowed from a sprint to a jog, then to a walk and then he collapsed on a bench, completely out of breath. 

Wash should have felt exhausted. His legs and lugs should have been on fire. He should be shaking, starving, and desperate for water. But all Wash could think about was that conversation in the small room. 

_ This isn’t right,  _ he thought over and over.  _ It  _ can’t _ be right.  _ He closed his eyes and pictured the sheet Mr. Bradley had given him. And, he realized, it  _ was  _ right, that even though Wash had paycheck of 72,000 a year, he hadn’t been able to make his past two payments. He would have to drop out. 

“I’m sorry,” Wash muttered, though who he was apologizing to, he didn’t know. His parents? The people he promised he would come home to with a degree and a high paying job? His sisters and brothers? For being the failure of a younger sibling, unable to live up to their standards? 

Himself? 

Wash pulled his phone out of his pocket. He didn’t know what to do, or who to call. The bank? The school?  

But instead he found himself opening his messages app. 

 

WASH: Can you pick me up? 

MAINE: Sure, where are you?

WASH: The park. 

MAINE: Why are you at the park? Shouldn’t you be at college?

MAINE: Are you okay? 

WASH: I don’t know...

MAINE: Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes. 

 

As he promised, ten minutes later Maine’s car pulled up alongside the bench where Wash was huddled. He leaned out of the window and grunted. Wash wiped his eyes and stood up with a shaky breath. His afternoon sprint had finally begun to catch up with him, and besides, he was in serious need of a drink. 

“Thanks,” Wash said hoarsely as he slid into the passenger’s side. Maine grunted and pulled out to the street. 

_ Want to tell me what’s going on?  _ Wash sighed. 

“I… I need to get drunk.” 

 

* * *

 

_ Out of funding?!  _ Maine’s look of disbelief was so comical that Wash had to fight the urge to laugh. He nodded and took a swig of the beer he found in the depths of his fridge. 

“Yup,” he confirmed with a tipsy nod. “No money, no classes.” Maine shook his head and took a drink of his own, but it hardly seemed to affect him at all. 

“Christ,” Wash muttered, overcome with sudden emotion. He buried his head into his hands. “What am I going to do?” Maine grunted and pulled out his notepad. 

_ You could always go full time at the police department.  _ Wash hesitated. 

“I do enjoy it,” he said slowly. “But it’s not what I pictured for my life at all.” 

_ Why not?  _ He sighed. 

“I just… I guess I always saw myself finding a nice, peaceful job in some fancy office building, meeting somebody and raising a family. A quiet life. It never even occurred to me that I would do anything other than that.” Maine raised an eyebrow. 

_ What did you want to accomplish with that kind of life?  _ Wash paused. 

“...I don’t know. I guess…” he trailed off, struggling for words in his drunken state. What  _ did  _ Wash want to accomplish? He didn’t know. 

He knew that he liked psychology. He enjoyed learning about people and how they think, how they act. He supposed that the reason he actually went to college is that so he could learn more. But then what? Wash knew that he had to find a job after he graduated… but what job? He knew that he wanted to settle down, maybe find a family. But with who? And how? 

There were too many questions for him to find answers to with a fuzzy mind, so Wash just looked away. He mentally swatted at the questions that buzzed around his head, taking another swig of his beer to help chase them out. 

Augusta, one of Wash’s many cats, meowed and plodded into the room. She slid around the edges of the wall, and jumped up onto the couch where Wash was sitting. He smiled weakly as she pressed her head into the palm of his hand and purred. 

“Hey kitty,” he said softly, stroking her fur. He glanced at Maine, who was staring at the cat with almost a reverent look on his face. “Do you want to pet her?” Maine nodded solemnly, and Wash picked Augusta up. 

She meowed in irritation as he passed her over to Maine, but she settled down quickly in the crook of the man’s arm. He pet her back gently, and within seconds, she was purring again. 

“She likes you,” Wash laughed. Maine grunted and nodded. “Her name’s Augusta.” Maine raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. “Do you want to meet the rest?” 

Maine nodded. 

 

Ten minutes later, Wash had managed to gather all ten of his cats in the living room, and was introducing them to Maine, one by one. 

“That one’s Saco,” he slurred, pointing to a fat orange tabby. “That one’s Hartford. And that one’s Bristol. No, sorry that’s Milford.  _ That  _ one is Bristol.” The cats seemed to like Maine, especially the Maine Coons. They seemed to sense the connection they had with the man. Cats are perceptive like that. 

They had moved to the floor, and Wash was leaning up against Maine for support. They had both finished more than a few bottles, and yet, Maine seemingly refused to get drunk. Wash liked how steady he was. It was nice. 

He snagged at cat roaming around and began to pet him. The cat sat contentedly in his lap. It was a white cat… but Wash couldn’t remember the type. It didn’t really matter though. He closed his eyes briefly, and it occurred to him how  _ quiet _ his apartment was. Of course, his apartment was always quiet, but not like this. He couldn’t put a name to it, but Maine’s presence made it seem peaceful. Safe. Quiet. Peaceful. Did he already say that? Wash shook his head. It didn’t matter. 

He opened his eyes a few minutes later, and the room seemed impossibly bright. 

“Ow…” he muttered, and attempted to push himself up. The cat he was holding meowed and jumped off his lap. Wash fell back as the cat launched itself off him, but he got back up. Maine grunted. “‘s too brig’t,” Wash said, stumbling across the room towards the lightswitch. “‘S too brig’t,” he said again, because his voice seemed oddly distant. It echoed in his ears. Echoed. Like a cave. “Echo!” Wash tried, and giggled as his voice reached his ears a few seconds late. “Echo!” Suddenly dizzy, he sat back down in the middle of the floor and turned to Maine. “D’ you hear that Maine? ‘S an echo!” He reached for his beer bottle, but it was so far away… Maine grunted and grabbed his hand. Wash frowned. 

“Why’d you do that Maine?” He stopped. “Maine,” he repeated, because he liked how the name felt in his mouth. “Maine. Maine Maine Maine,” he said, smiling. “Maine.”  Through blurry eyes, he saw Maine Maine  _ Maine  _ leaning forward, a funny look on his face. Wash blinked again. Oh yeah, he forgot. The room was too bright. 

He began to push himself off the floor again, but he was having much more trouble getting up and-- ow, he was back on the floor. 

Wash tried again, but somehow his arms got twisted on the way up, and Wash fell down again. Maine was watching him with an amused look on his face. 

“‘S not  _ funny  _ Maine,” Wash muttered, his face impossibly hot. “Maine.” He tried to get up again, to no avail. 

Out of options, Wash laid down on his side and curled up. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Maine…” he said. “‘S too  _ brig’t.”  _ His voice was echoing again in his ears, but he didn’t like it anymore, he didn’t like the way it made him separate from the world, didn’t like how  _ alone  _ it made him feel, but that was ridiculous because he wasn’t alone, he had all ten of his cats in all shapes and sizes and-- 

The room was dark. Wash opened his eyes. It was still dark. 

“What…?” he said, pushing himself up. There wasn’t anymore light, and his eyes felt heavy, but it was  _ dark _ and he couldn’t  _ see,  _ and he was  _ alone _ because he couldn’t  _ find _ Maine, he was all  _ alone... _

“Maine…” he said weakly. “Maine… where are you?” No reply. “Maine… I’m scared.” Somewhere in the dark, he heard a vague grunt. “Maine?” And then he could just barely make out a face above his, and there was strong and steady hand on his shoulders, and Wash immediately felt as ease because  _ here he was,  _ here was Maine, in his apartment, and he made it feel safe and quiet and peaceful. 

“Keep m’ safe, okay Maine?” He saw Maine nod solemnly and grunt.

_ Okay.  _

“You promise?” The hand that was on Wash’s shoulder squeezed him tightly, and, looking into his face, Wash could practically hear him say the words. 

_ I promise.  _

Wash smiled. 

“Thank you.” And with that, he let his eyes flutter closed, and drifted off into sleep. 


	8. Dark Side of the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading the tags, yes?

It wasn’t the first time Wash woke up from a hangover with Maine on his mind, but it certainly was the most pleasant. 

The smell of coffee drifted through the air, and Wash pried his lead-lidded eyes, hands groping blindly at whatever piece of furniture he had passed out on. The first thing he noticed was the light-- the blinding light that only accentuated his headache. Other than that? The world was a big blur, and he couldn’t make out much. He groaned, blinking a few times, and slowly, slowly, the room began to straighten out. 

Wash vaguely recognized his living room, and he pinpointed the source of the light. Early morning sunshine streamed through the flimsy scraps fabric that were his curtains, creating a checkered pattern on his carpet. If he squinted hard enough, he could pick out a few blobs of gray and white fur lying in the light. 

After a few minutes of combined squinting and patting around, Wash determined that he was laying on his couch. A blanket was laid neatly on top of him, and Wash got the feeling that he didn’t move much throughout the night. 

But back to that coffee smell. Just  _ where  _ was it coming from? The last time he checked, Wash was living alone. He inhaled deeply, just to make sure he still wasn’t asleep, and realized that the smell actually seemed vaguely familiar. Like cookies and… 

Wash bolted upright (which he very much regretted as the motion sent waves of pain through his head) and peered blearily through his crusted eyelids.  _ Maine.  _ Was he still here? Wash tried to think back to the night before, but to be honest, he didn’t remember much of it-- only the dash to the park and the desperate search for any alcohol he owned. Did Maine go home after that? 

Well, obviously he  _ didn’t _ go home. The smell of coffee got stronger and stronger until Wash realized someone was bending over him, holding two small objects. 

“Maine,” Wash said surprised, and for some reason, he really liked the way the name sounded. As soon as the thought popped into his head, he blushed, and glanced away. “Uh… thanks,” he stuttered as Maine placed a cup of coffee into his open hands. Maine grunted. 

_ How are you feeling?  _ Wash sighed and took a small sip. 

“Like crap,” he admitted, and oddly, Maine smiled. 

_ You were pretty out of it last night. _

“Yeah?” Wash said absently, then hesitated. “Hey… um. I don’t really remember much of last night… did I… say anything?” he asked, since he had been informed many times of how he gets when he’s drunk. 

A shadow of an unusual expression flickered across Maine’s face, but he shook his head. 

“Oh. Okay then.” Wash shrugged and sipped his coffee again. “This is good,” he said gratefully. “Thanks.” Maine nodded, and sat down on an old chair opposite the couch. 

Wash could feel the burdens of life flitting over his shoulders, looking for a place to land. Dollar signs and bloody knives and A+’s darted between his ears and under his hair, but, as Wash took another sip of his coffee and smiled at Maine, he thought he could hold them off just a little longer. 

* * *

 

“Hey South, can I talk to you?” North’s sister, as usual, regarded him with a look that might have had a  _ bit _ less disgust than as if he were a wad of gum she stepped on. He’s long since learned to ignore it, though. That was just the way she looked at everyone (except, he noted recently with only mild surprise, CT). So even though she was giving him a look that rivaled even Tex’s through her purple-tipped bangs, he continued. “It’s about the Insurrectionists.” 

“What? Big bad North needs  _ my  _ help?” she spat at him, snapping her gum and checking the magazine on her gun. She aimed the pistol at a target across the room, and squeezed the trigger twice. North refused to flinch, even though the echoing shots beat into his eardrums. 

“I just want to talk some things over with you,” he said carefully after the ringing had died in his ears. “Something Wash found.” South snorted and rechecked the gun. 

“The rookie? What could  _ he  _ have found that no one else did?” She aimed again, and North braced himself for the sound. 

“You’d be surprised,” he shouted as she fired round after round at the target. She didn’t acknowledge him, even after she set down the firearm. She pressed a button on the wall next to her, and the target slid forward. South had landed five shots in a closely packed ring, right in the center of the head. North whistled. 

“You’re getting better,” he approved. South snorted. 

“Don’t try to flatter me.” But as she turned away, he could make out the barest hint of smile. “So?” she said, racking the pistol she held, and selecting another one. “What could you  _ possibly _ need my help with?” North decided to ignore the sarcastic undertones, and move on to the more pressing matter. 

“I think I can ID the killer.” That got her attention. South paused examining the rack of guns for a moment. “But I need your help if I want to go after him.” She grabbed a .44 Magnum, and slapped in a magazine. 

“Can’t you get your boyfriend to do it?” she snarked, aiming the gun. Seeing North furrow his eyebrows, she added, “York.” He sighed. 

“Come on, you  _ know  _ we work better as a team,” he persuaded her, but he was only met with a roll of the eyes. “I’ll let you drive…” he offered with a teasing smile. She hesitated. 

“Ford or Dodge?” she asked, feigning apathy, but he could see the glint in her eyes. 

“Dodge.” South considered it. 

“Alright. But I want half the credit.” North shook his head. 

“Forty percent.” 

“Fifty, or I’m not coming.” He sighed. 

“Alright, fifty it is.” South nodded, lifting the gun back up and aiming again. North smirked and shook his head as he exited the room.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey York,” Carolina said softly. The man in the chair next to her stirred the tiniest bit, and she held her breath, praying he wouldn’t wake up. He grunted, one eyelid fluttering, but within seconds, he was snoring again. 

Carolina opened her mouth. “I…” She shut it again, unsure of what to say. She didn’t know exactly what she was doing here, or what she wanted to accomplish, or why she insisted on watching him while he slept-- which made her feel almost  _ dirty _ ... like she was cheating somehow. If that were possible. All she knew is that she saw York asleep in the chair and she was captivated by how innocent, how  _ vulnerable  _ he seemed. An invisible force drew her to him, the same one that drew her to her fate that day at the bar. 

“This is stupid,” Carolina muttered, berating herself. Invisible forces? Like  _ those _ existed. And even if they did, she shouldn’t be so weak as to allow them to take control of her. 

And yet, her body refused to move. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” The whispers tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she instinctively reached out, as if she could catch them before they escaped the room. Maybe it was her imagination, but the lights in the room seemed to dim, blocked by the shadow her words cast. She flinched. It pained her to say that more than she cared to admit… but York didn’t stir. 

That’s when it hit her-- he was asleep. She could say--  _ whisper--  _ anything she wanted to right now, and no one would know. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said again, stronger this time, and was unable to stop the involuntary flinch, but at least she could say the words without choking. “I really don’t,” she continued with a bitter laugh, and she could swear the lights brightened again. 

“I always wanted to be a scientist.” With each syllable, the weight on her shoulders lifted. “A researcher. Genetics. I wanted to  _ help  _ people.” Her voice grew louder and more confident as she settled in the surprisingly easy rhythm of spilling her guts to the empty room. She took a deep breath. 

“I’m not a police officer.” It hung in the air, and lingered acidically on her lips, but the words weren’t suffocating. She could still draw breath, and Carolina focused on doing that now, timing each inhale with the rise and fall of York’s chest. Up and down. Up and down. Up. And down. And the poisoned air gradually became sweeter and sweeter until she was no longer gasping, but drinking in the freedom of a deaf audience. 

“I’m not a police officer,” she repeated, and this time a giddy laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she was laughing and laughing until she was crying and tears ran streaming down her face, carving sharp indents into her cheeks. 

She shook her head, biting her lip, and glanced at York. His face was dropped into in his shoulder, the corners of his mouth turned down. The left side of his face was angled toward her, and she c4ould see now, more clearly than ever, the glare of his eyepatch.

And she couldn’t break away her gaze. As she looked at the flimsy piece of black fabric that covered his eye, the echoes of his screams filled the back of her mind. Her next sob caught in her throat, and suddenly, York’s face was ribbons of torn flesh, blood pooling on the floor, on her hands. She inhaled a shallow, ragged breath. Growls faded into the foreground, and her shouts were mingled with Tex’s and York’s, all blending together in one single, gruesome harmony and she was shaking and shaking and he was  _ hurt  _ and in pain right before her eyes and she couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

She blinked. The blood was gone. Her eyes were dry. 

“I’m sorry.” This whisper had lost all strength the previous one’s had, and it was a shadowy, haunting one that echoed between her ears. “I’m sorry,” because apparently, all she could do was repeat herself. She was never a  _ word  _ person, and today especially, her well was empty. “York, I’m sorry. You deserve better.” 

He did. She knew he did. He didn’t  _ deserve _ the injury, he didn’t  _ deserve _ to be put in harms way for a test, he didn’t  _ deserve _ to be stuck with her, when she can’t even save him. She rolled the word over and over again into her mouth until it turned bitter and cold and angry and she wanted to spit it back out. No one in her unit  _ deserved  _ to have their lives toyed with. Wash didn’t  _ deserve  _ to be forced into the unit, to be ripped from his destiny. CT didn’t  _ deserve  _ to be made a point of, to be purposefully shoved to the side. South didn’t  _ deserve  _ to be compared to her brother and North didn’t  _ deserve  _ to have a rift driven between him and his sibling. 

“You deserve better.” They all did. “I owe you that much, at least.” She looked down into her lap, and twisted her hands-- a habit she hasn’t done since she was very little. Since her mother was still… 

“I’m going to get stronger,” Carolina said, and this time, she was determined. She  _ had  _ to be, if she was ever going to protect her unit, to protect York, because who else will? Tex? Please. 

“I’m going to get stronger.” Repeated words. “I swear.” And weighted promises. 

With that, Carolina stood, her gaze set. She was going to get stronger, no matter what it takes. She  _ will  _ fulfill her promise and she  _ will  _ protect York. She had to. 

And she exited the room with such determination, with such confidence, that she didn’t think to stop and look back at York. 

But if she did, she would have seen his eyelids flutter, and the barest hint of a smile begin to grow on his face. 

* * *

 

The TV played in the background, some stupid hospital show that Grif would normally flip right by. But Simmons had picked it-- apparently it calmed him to see people die of blood loss on the operating table. Grif couldn’t understand the appeal of cheesy acoustic elevator music and romantic subplots and overly-dramatic conflicts fueled by simple miscommunication… but hey, if Simmons like it, then he can stand one episode or two. 

That’s what he told himself four hours ago. He didn’t expect the show to be so… well,  _ good.  _ He didn’t expect to be so engrossed in it that he would willingly hit ‘next’ after the end of the second episode. And he certainly didn’t expect that, once Simmons fell asleep, he would continue watching it until dawn broke. 

“Are you seriously still watching that show?” Simmons muttered from underneath a heap of blankets. Grif scooped his finger along the inside of the popcorn bowl, searching for just the tiniest bit of popcorn buttery goodness. All he could find was one drop. 

“So what if I am?” he said as he stuck his finger in his mouth, but the words lacked any venom. “You’re the one who picked it, anyway.” Simmons groaned and pushed himself up. He yawned and stretched his arms way above his head, almost as if in a cartoon, and blinked tiredly. 

“Sleep well?” Grif asked nonchalantly, trying to ignore how Simmons’ sleepy face was making his stomach turn in odd directions. 

Simmons nodded, and reached a blind hand out for his glasses. After several seconds of him patting around helplessly, Grif sighed and picked them off the nightstand. Simmons put them on and blinked several times. 

“Crap, did I steal your bed again?” he asked, apologetic. Grif shook his head and waved him off. 

“It’s cool. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” He kicked at his bunched up sleeping bag. “I don’t have to sit up to watch TV.” Simmons rolled his eyes. 

“Fatass,” he muttered, and Grif was relieved to see him back to normal. 

“You want some breakfast?” he offered. Simmons nodded shyly. “Too bad, go make it yourself.” Simmons made a face. 

“Thanks a lot.” 

“We’ve got some pancake mix in the cupboard, I think,” Grif said, waving a hand at the bedroom door vaguely, and turning up the volume on the TV. They were just getting to the good part. Simmons sighed loudly, and rolled out of bed. “Call me when they’re ready!” Grif shouted at him as he slammed the bedroom door shut. 

Once he heard the footsteps retreating down the hallway, Grif pulled out his phone. 

 

DONUT: How’s Simmons? 

GRIF: Yeah, he spent the night at my place. 

DONUT: Is everything okay?

GRIF: Seems like it. Already insulted me once today. 

DONUT: Oh thank god. 

DONUT: Feel free to call me if you want!  
GRIF: Meh. 

DONUT: I have some relaxing bath bombs he’d like! Lavender!

GRIF: Bye Donut. 

DONUT: Or Rose! Rose is my favorite. 

DONUT: Grif? 

DONUT: Grif!!

 

It had been a while since Simmons had to stay over, but Grif could remember every single detail of every single night this had happened. The look on Simmons’ face when he showed up on Grif’s doorstep, shaking and breathless and pale. The wide-eyed terror on his normally innocent face. The stench of alcohol and bile oozing off of him. And one time, even the blood that dripped down from a fresh cut on his cheek. 

And Grif would barely hesitate once he saw Simmons, pulling him inside and cleaning his cuts. Wrapping a blanket around him and leading him into the bathroom. He would sit outside the door as Simmons washed himself off, and they would talk about anything Grif could think of, and they would ignore the monster looming just over their heads. Grif would make the two of them and Kai dinner (although sometimes he would just order out), and they would retreat to Grif’s bedroom. Sometimes they would play games, sometimes they would watch movies, or sometimes, they would just lie there in the dark and continue their conversation. 

Simmons would never actually tell Grif what had happened that night, what had set his dad off, or how bad it had gotten before Simmons escaped. But Grif could tell. He could hear the story through the topics Simmons avoided when they talked. And Grif didn’t miss the bruises on his back and arms. He didn’t miss the way Simmons would flinch every time Grif moved too quickly. He didn’t miss the tossing and turning in the middle of the night, and the whimpers that escaped the bed. 

Last night, Grif could tell, was particularly bad. He wasn’t entirely sure what was different about it, but Simmons had seemed distant. Closed off. Like something precious to him, his heart, was ripped out of his chest. And Grif would be damned if he didn’t want to kill Simmons Senior every time he looked at his son. 

 

But Simmons couldn’t bring himself to hate his father. Not even after he looked at the electricity and water and heating bills and worried how they were going to pay them all. Not even after he would have to carefully replace the alcohol with a mixture of salt, vinegar, water and olive juice and pray that his dad couldn’t tell the difference. Not even after the countless times that Simmons had cut his hands prying open the basement window and squeezing through. It was insane, the amount of pain his family brought him, and yet… he just couldn’t do it. Blood is blood, after all… right?

_ “You goddamned faggot.”  _ The words echoed in his mind, and Simmons slammed the mixing bowl down on the counter harder than he wanted to.  _ “You don’t deserve to be here.” _

“Simmons?” Grif’s voice called from his bedroom. 

“Uh, I’m fine!” Simmons called back, cursing his voice for threatening to tip into soprano territory. He busied himself with making the pancakes. “I need…” Milk. Simmons pried open the fridge door-- and gasped in shock as buckets of butter and leftover chinese food spilled out on top of him, the glass containers shattering on impact with the floor. Instinctively, he jerked back quickly, concentrating very hard on breathing and  _ not  _ freaking out. 

_ “Don’t you fucking dare talk back to me.”  _

“Simmons!” Grif called again, and this time, he could hear pounding footsteps down the hallway. Simmons swallowed. 

“I’m fine!” he shouted back, but his voice cracked in the middle, and he couldn’t quite get the words out. “No, don’t come in here--” 

_ “Don’t come in here!”  _

“--there’s glass…” 

_ “Get out or I swear to god--”  _

“--you’ll hurt yourself…” 

_ “Go kill yourself.”  _

The floor swam beneath him, and Simmons stumbled, falling to his knees. He put out his hands to catch himself and-- 

_ A sharp sting of pain as the glass connected with his skin and dragged, ripping the flesh open--  _

“Oh Jesus,” Grif gasped, stepping carefully over the shards of glass. “God, Simmons.” He reached out as Simmons lifted his hands and gazed blankly at them. It was all too much-- his red-stained palms and the metallic scent of blood drifting up into the air and the tinkling of glass as Grif brushed them out of the way and knelt down next to him and the echos in his head that got louder and louder and louder until he thought they would erupt from his mouth and his stomach was surging and Simmons could barely stop himself as he jerked forward and was sick all over the floor. 

Grif didn’t say anything, just put a hand on Simmons’ shoulder as he hurled forward again and again until his stomach was empty and he was left gasping and retching on the ground. 

“S’okay,” Grif muttered gruffly once Simmons seemed like he was done. 

“I’m…” he gasped, trying to force out his words, but the effort made him gag, and so Simmons closed his mouth and focused on breathing very hard. Grif’s hand was strong and steady on his back, and it rose and fell with his heaves. 

“I’m…” Simmons tried again after an indeterminate amount of time. It took a little less effort this time to spit out the word. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” And once the words were out, they would not stop coming. Simmons rocked back and forth on his knees, his bloody hands gripping the sleeves of his shirt and he whimpered and whispered them over and over again, as if that could somehow make it okay. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m--” 

“Hey,” Grif said, steel in his voice. He lifted his hand off of Simmons’ back, and grabbed his hands, gently prying them off his shirt. “Listen to me. It’s okay. You are okay.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You are okay,” Grif repeated. “Simmons, look at me.” And he did, lifting his heavy head up to meet Grif’s eyes, tears threatening to spill over the sides. 

“Simmons?” 

“Yes,” Simmons said, and it was a breathless thing, more of a gasp that a word. Grif’s hands traveled up his blood-stained sleeves, until each was placed on one of Simmons’ cheek, and he was staring him straight in the eye. 

“This is not your fault.” And Simmons was lurching again, but not because he was sick, because the tears were now flowing freely and his breaths came in shallow gasps and Grif was holding his gaze and refused to look away and his eyes were strong and determined and steady and his hands were warm, and Simmons couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before.. 

“This is not your fault,” Grif said again, and Simmons grasped desperately at these words, clutching them desperately to his chest. “It’s not your fault,” he said with such conviction that finally,  _ finally _ , Simmons nodded the slightest bit. 

“It’s not your fault.” Grif repeated, and Simmons’ breath stuttered and hitched. But the next one he took was deeper, and full of wetness. “It’s not your fault.” Simmons allowed his eyes to flutter closed, drinking in the words and the support of Grif’s hands cupping his chin. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“S’not my fault,” Simmons involuntarily echoed, and his eyelids flew open at the shock. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“S’not my fault.” The words were stronger now, and they seemed to ease a pressure off his shoulders. “It’s not my fault.” 

“You’re goddamned right it’s not,” Grif said, smiling a little. Simmons took a deep breath, and then another, and then the tears rolled to a stop. 

“It’s not my fault,” he said. “It’s not my fault.” 

“There you go,” Grif said softly, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Simmons’. And Grif didn’t care that they both smelled like morning breath and bile, and he didn’t care that bits of glass were embedding themselves in his jeans, and he didn’t care that they were both covered in blood. 

And neither did Simmons. 

 

* * *

 

Church woke up with Tex in his arms, and, to be honest, it was the best fucking feeling in the world. He was perfectly content to allow his eyelids to drop back down and spend several minutes with her, just laying in perfect silence.

That is, of course, until she stretched and elbowed him in the face. 

“Ow!” Church complained. 

“Whoops,” Tex said apathetically yawning, and pressing her back into his chest. He sighed heavily as he got a faceful of hair, and he was pretty sure he could see her smirking. 

“Bitch,” he muttered. 

“Asshole,” she returned playfully, and Church turned his face up toward the ceiling, freeing one hand to pull strands of hair out of his mouth. Tex shifted under the covers to look at him. He glanced down at her, rolling his eyes. She reached a hand out, placed it on his cheek, and pulled him in for a kiss. Church made a face. 

“Ugh, morning breath,” he muttered into her lips and pulled away to make a gagging motion. 

“Shut up and kiss me,” Tex commanded in that super-hot battlefield voice, and Church happily complied. He slid his hands up her forearm and tugged gently, pulling her slowly over on top of him. She pressed her mouth deeper into his, gravity dragging wisps of tangled blonde hair down past her ears. 

Church walked his fingers down her stomach, and tugged slyly at the bottom of her shirt. He thought maybe she wouldn’t notice, but he only got about an inch before she caught his hand and dragged it above up his head, pinning one arm to the mattress.

“Uh uh,” she whispered into his ear. Church groaned. “I’ve got work today.” 

“Do you have to?” he protested, but she cut him off, brushing her 

“You know I do.” And with that, she rolled off him. His chest felt suddenly empty and cold, and he had to resist the urge to drag her back. She slid off the bed and pulled off her shirt with her back, unfortunately, to him. 

Church groaned and sat up as she threw on her clothes. He ran a finger through his messy hair, yawning tiredly. He was ready to go back to sleep, but his crazy, commando girlfriend was already tying her hair back and heading out the door. 

“Bring home dinner!” he shouted after her. 

“It’s your turn to cook tonight!” she countered, and slammed the front door shut behind her. 

 

* * *

 

 

“So… do you want to come back for dinner next week?” The words consisted of almost no thinking, only pure instinct, and Wash was shocked when they fell out of his mouth as Maine was leaving. He nearly even clamped a hand over his face, to both hide the bright red that was growing on his cheeks and to stop anything else from being dragged out as well. “Uh… I mean, it’s okay if you don’t. I just know that you aren’t working then, and I’m not either, and so I just thought that--” 

Maine held up a hand, cutting off Wash’s ramble. He nodded gruffly, and a brief smile flickered over his face. The familiar turn of his lips immediately set Wash at ease, and he grinned back. 

“Oh. Okay, cool. I’ll… um. I’ll see what I can make,” he stuttered, already retreating into his head in for for recipes. Wash never was much of a cook… but it was his mom’s favorite hobby, and he picked up a thing or two from her. And besides, if all else fails, he’s got Donut. 

Maine threw on his jacket, and pulled on his shoes, and turned back toward Wash with a hand on the door. Wash glanced up at him. 

“What?” Maine smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he gazed at Wash for a moment or two. Then, fondly, he reached out and ruffled Wash’s hair. 

It was such a simple act. And yet, it lit up Wash’s body like a circuit board. His head sparked when Maine’s hand came into contact with it, and the fizzles of light rained down through his body, dripping to his fingertips, igniting a fire in the pit of his stomach, and, for some odd reason, Wash was finding it very hard to breathe. 

He glanced up at Maine with wide eyes, and they held each other’s gaze intensely, neither knowing what to say or what to do, but all Wash knew was that he didn’t want Maine to leave. 

But Maine forced himself to break away, glancing back at the door with a pained look, and suddenly two words flashed vividly in Wash’s mind. 

_ He died.  _

“So… see you next week then? At… is six okay?” Wash asked, trying to push down the intrusive memory. Maine grunted in confirmation.

_ Six it is.  _

 

* * *

 

DONUT: You asked Maine out on a date???

WASH: What?! No! It’s NOT a date!! 

WASH: How do you even know anyway?!

DONUT: I have my ways

WASH: ?!?!????????????

DONUT: And by my definition, ‘dinner at six’ is definitely a date

WASH: It’s not! There is NOTHING between us! 

DONUT: Not yet ;) 

WASH: ?! 

DONUT: Let me know how it goes, okay? Good luck!  
WASH: DONUT!! 

DONUT: Bye! 


	9. The Twins

“Christ, is it cold in here or what?” A voice bounced between the old wooden walls, echoing down that hallway so loudly that South couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Apparently, it doesn’t matter  _ what  _ organization you’re in-- there’ll always be bitching bottom feeders. 

“How cold do you think it is?” somebody replied, a dull, bored voice.

“It’s gotta be below freezing, right?” South nearly groaned out loud, but she knew North would be pissed if she screwed this up, so she settled for deeply massaging her temples. She used a cracked window as a mirror, and squinted to get a glimpse of the two thugs through a hole next to her. They were back to back-- one lounging in a chair and picking his nose, the other one standing near the door on the opposite end of the room. Perfect. 

“You know who  _ doesn’t  _ have to pull night duty?” the one picking his nose asked. 

“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” the other said, shifting so he leaned against the door. South began to creep around the wall, making her way over to the door he was guarding. The task was fairly easy-- the guys were so wrapping up in just whatever they were doing that she didn’t have to worry too much about making noise. 

“Jenkins,” the guy spat. The other one simply grunted. “I bet Jenkins is sleeping right now, with his big fuckin’ melonhead on a soft pillow.” 

“Yeah, that’s Jenkins.” 

After what seemed like only seconds, South pressed her back against the wall near the second guard. She took a deep breath, a pulled out her hands cuffs from their place on her belt. She bent down on the ground, and picked up a small object-- a pebble? Glass? She didn’t know, but whatever it was, she rolled it between her fingers and tuned back into their conversation. 

“You know I got all the good jobs? For eight weeks straight, I was top pick! Eight weeks, man!” 

“Lucky you,” the guy replied, but he was more concerned with what had made that weird noise out in the hallway than he was with Jackson’s complaining. He reached behind him, and carefully pulled out his gun. 

“And then I make  _ one fucking comment--”  _ The guard carefully pried open the door a crack, and peered out in the hallway. There was another sudden clatter. 

“Huh, that’s great,” he muttered distractedly, pushing the door open a bit more. But he still didn’t see anything. He seriously hoped that he wasn’t going crazy. 

“And the next thing you know--” Ugh. Jackson was still ranting. Who gives a shit about Jenkins? The guard cautiously stepped out into the hallway… but there still wasn’t anything. Shaking his head, he holstered his gun. Maybe he really  _ was _ going crazy… 

All he saw was a flash of movement, and then-- 

“Jenkins gets top pick, and I’m stuck in here with…” the one remaining in the room faltered as he turned to gesture at his partner. “Murphy?” 

_ Murphy _ , South thought with a wry smile,  _ is a bit busy right now _ . She tightened the metal restraints on the guy on the ground, and pulled out her phone. She tapped on an app, uploaded an audio file, and pressed a few buttons. 

“Murph? Come on, Murph?” The first guy neared the door, just as South finished her programming. She played it. 

“Murph? Where are you?”

“Yeah, out here.” South grinned with satisfaction as the second guard’s voice rang out clearly from her phone speakers. “I thought I heard something.” She heard the click as the first guard holstered his gun… and she pulled out her own. 

“Oh yeah?” he snorted, sauntering towards the door. “What’d ya hear? A ghost?” He stepped out in the hallway, actually  _ passing  _ South. He glanced around, the sardonic smirk on his face quickly fading as he took in the empty area.

“I guess you could say something like that,” South spoke up. The guard whipped around, fumbling for his gun-- but she was too fast. She kicked it out of his hands, and slammed him against a wall. Quickly, precisely, she spun him around and yanked his arms behind his back. He struggled, and she landed a very satisfying blow to head that knocked him out immediately. She stepped back, and let him drop to the ground. 

“Am I clear?” South pulled out her radio and whispered into it. North responded immediately. 

“Yes South, you’re clear.” She could hear the slightest annoyance in his voice. “But watch your six. There’s so many hallways in this place… it’ll be a bit before I can get to you.” 

But South was already moving, winding deeper and deeper into the warehouse. 

It wasn’t just any warehouse, North had informed her on the ride over. It was one of the Insurrectionists’ major bases, hidden in the outskirts of the city, and they had modified the inside to become this mass labyrinth of passages and rooms. North had provided a half-drawn schematic of the place, but not many cops had dared to touch this warehouse-- and South could understand why. There were so many thugs here that anything short of a full-on raid complete with air support and backup from S.W.A.T. was suicide. At least, for anybody except the two of them. 

“What’s the time?” South muttered over her radio, ducking into a hallway as two thugs passed her. 

“Don’t worry about the time,” North replied, in his uniquely caring and condescending way. “Worry about the objective. We’ve got movement down the East wing.” She snorted, below a strangely advanced camera (weren’t these guys supposed to be stupid thugs?) and into another room. 

“I’ll be long gone by then,” she said smugly, managing to catch a lone wanderer in a stranglehold and choke him until he slumped against her. She hid him behind a stack of shelves. 

“Okay South,” North said, again in that condescending voice. “Slow down. Be careful.” 

“Nah,” she said. “Takes too long.” He sighed. 

“We’ll have you at least been scanning facials? This whole thing is pointless if we don’t find the guy we came here for.” South guiltily pulled out her phone and unlocked it. 

“Uh, yeah. Sure I’ve been doing that.” North sighed again, but he didn’t say anything. 

Thanks to the extensive Blood Gulch Police Station archives, and the help of Fillis, North had come across a list of criminals within the Insurrectionists that used to be associated with a gang called the Covenant back in the 90’s. Using Wash’s specifications, he was able to narrow down the list to about twenty suspects. It seemed like a lot, but if they could catch even one, that one might lead them to the rest. Hence, the facial recognition software. 

South figured she wouldn’t need it yet anyways. If these guys were seriously good enough to become the hitmen for two gangs in a row, she would know when she was fighting them. They certainly wouldn’t be stuck in warehouse somewhere outside the city. 

“Just trust me, North,” South said, attempting to get him to cool his jets. But a heavy sigh and a few moments of silence on the other end of her radio indicated that his jets were not, in fact, cooled. 

But it didn’t matter anyways, because South had finally found what  _ she  _ was looking for. 

Her assignment wasn’t some bullshit murder investigation or anything like that. No, her assignment was something else entirely-- information retrieval. According to the Director (the only person who knew about her assignment), there was an actual database hidden somewhere in this warehouse. Which made no sense, because come on, there is no way a  _ street gang  _ had a freaking  _ database.  _

And yet, here it was. 

South stopped in awe. The entire wall before her was composed of only computers and keyboards and storage units and  _ holy shit _ if she had any suspicions before about this gang, they were definitely confirmed now. 

“South, talk to me,” North’s voice boomed out over her radio, and South jumped. 

“Not right now,” she hissed, and switched it off. She knew North would be plenty pissed with her after the mission, but now she had more important things to worry about. 

South strode forward, carefully glancing around for any hidden thugs… but strangely, there were none. Lunch break, maybe? 

She pulled a USB out from her back pocket, and searched for a port to plug it in.  While she was scanning the wall of computers, her pager beeped insistently. North. 

Finally, South found a port near the edge of the wall, and jammed the drive into it. A screen next to her lit up, and she began to transfer files to the drive, not caring whether they were encrypted or not. Her pager beeped again. 

While the files were loading, South pulled up a terminal and typed in a search command. 

“Come on…” she muttered, eyes flickering through the list of folders she pulled up. “Come on.” It had to be here somewhere-- 

“South!” she rolled her eyes as North’s voice finally broke through the radio. She had no idea how he managed to turn it on from the opposite end of the warehouse… but that was North. 

“South! Check your six, I just saw someone heading your way!” South clenched her teeth, fingers flying furiously across the keyboard. 

“Come  _ on,  _ dammit!” she gritted, pressing enter one last time. And, like a miracle, the exact files she needed popped up. South laughed incredulously. Oh yeah, she was  _ awesome.  _

“South!” North shouted again, and, with a roll of her eyes, she yanked the USB out of the port, shut off the computer, spun around and--

Oh shit. 

She was face to face with an equally startled thug who held two cups of coffee in his hand. Eyes wide, he inhaled deeply and opened his mouth. South quickly drew her gun and aimed it at him. 

“Don’t. Even. Think about it,” she warned, cocking it. He paused. She smirked. He stared at her, blinking. South cautiously sneaked her hand toward the drive and pulled it out quickly. The thug backed up the tiniest bit, closed his eyes, then-- 

“Hey! Help! There’s someone--  _ hrrk.”  _ South winced as her wild shot hit him in the shoulder, and he collapsed to the ground. But it was too late, already she could hear shouts from out in the hallway. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, glancing around at all the exits. She lifted her gun and prepared to make a run for it. 

“South!” North shouted, appearing out of nowhere and grabbing her elbow. “This way.” He yanked her through a door to the right, ducking under the shots that were already starting to fire, and shoving his way through a wall of thugs. 

Quickly regaining her bearings, South pulled her arm away from him and began to defend them.  _ Just point and shoot,  _ she told herself, squeezing off round after round.  _ You’ve been in worse situations before.  _

But this situation was getting pretty bad. She trusted North to guide them through the maze of hallways and doors, and she was covering his back. She took down one guy after another. Blood splattered the walls and screams filled the corridors. She tried to aim for limbs-- shoulders, legs, feet. She didn’t always hit her target. 

_ This is going to mean a lot of red-tape,  _ South thought wildly as another thug dropped, clutching his leg in pain.  _ Maybe I’ll convince North to do it.  _

A lot of things run through South’s mind when she’s in the middle of a firefight. It was odd, her body goes on autopilot and her mind wanders. Images of her brother and friends, that jingle she heard from a commercial a day ago, what she was gonna make for dinner… they all passed through her head in the blink of an eye, even as she felled man after man. And before she knew it, they had entered a big room. She was ready to celebrate… until her mind registered exactly what she was seeing. 

“Oh come on,” she muttered, gripping her gun and pressing up against North. The walls were lined with thugs, each equipped with enough firepower to massacre an entire block.  _ Where the hell are they getting all this from?  _ South thought as a man stepped forward. He raised his assault rifle, and carefully aimed it at the twins. 

“Attention, assholes,” he shouted triumphantly, earning a whooping chorus from the guys along the sides. “You’ve got nowhere to go! Lower your weapons, and give us the data file.” South felt North press tighter to her, and they exchanged glances over their shoulders.

Well, fuck. 

 

 

* * *

 

“Hey Carolina,” York greeted as he passed her in the hallway. She glanced up from the tablet she cradled in her arms. 

“Hi York-- hey, have you seen the twins lately?” He stopped, glancing around. 

“Now that I think about it… no, I haven’t. I think they mentioned some sort of mission? I don’t know, North seemed kind of in a hurry last I saw him.” Carolina frowned, examining the tablet. 

“They weren’t scheduled for anything today…” York shrugged. 

“Maybe it’s a personal thing?” 

“Yeah…” she muttered. “I’m going to track their cars, just in case.” He nodded. 

“Want to come with you?” 

“Actually--” Carolina stopped, the hairs on the back of her neck tingling. She glanced around, frowning. 

“What’s wrong?” York asked. Carolina hesitated, checking over her shoulder-- and froze as she saw a figure near the back of the hallway, leaning against a door. Tex. Carolina stiffened. 

York followed her gaze to the door and stepped forward, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He gently turned her away. 

“Come on, let’s go track their cars,” he soothed. Carolina gritted her teeth and batted his hand away, stomping the other way down the corridor. York glanced back at Tex once more, before following her. 

“Hey, hold up,” he shouted after her. She ignored him, pacing forward and typing furiously on her datapad. “Look,” York panted after he finally caught up with her. “I know Tex pisses you off, but it wasn’t her fault, what happened to me. You should know that. I mean, sure, she’s kind of aggressive, but--” Carolina sighed and stopped. 

“It’s not Tex, York,” she said, exasperated. “I found their cars.” York raised his eyebrows. 

“Seriously? How?” 

“I was trying to  _ tell _ you, I installed a separate GPS system in their cars that runs through my datapad. It saves time, that way I don’t have to go to command.” 

“Oh.” Carolina began to walk again, turning into the Armory (as York dubbed it). 

“So?” he asked. “Where are they?” She didn’t look at him, only began to slip on her Kevlar vest and slid three guns into their holsters. 

“Some warehouse outside the city. We’ve had it pegged as an Insurrectionist safehouse for a while, but it’s seriously hot,” she explained casually, as if they had only gone to the grocery store. York caught her hand as she sheathed a knife. 

“And what, you’re going in alone?” Carolina looked at him strangely and gently pulled her hand away.  

“Of course, I’m the only one on duty today.” She began to back out of the armory, heading back down the hallway. York followed her. 

“I’m going too,” he said, determined. 

“Absolutely not,” she replied, not even batting an eye. He quickened his pace to match hers. 

“Why not?” 

“You aren’t fully recovered.” 

“But you can’t just go in there alone!” 

“Yes I can. I’m strong enough.” York groaned. It was amazing just how  _ thick  _ she could be sometimes. The two of them turned into the lobby, making their way past a startled Fillis at her desk. 

“Carolina, it’s not about whether you’re strong enough. You are talking about  _ storming _ a  _ safe house.  _ By  _ yourself.”  _ She stopped now, her hand on the door, whirling on him with full force. 

“I. Am. Going. This is not up for discussion. I can do it, York.” 

“But--” She fixed him with a glare. 

“Right now, North and South are in there, without backup. Every second I spend arguing with you, is another second they could be dying.  _ Dying,  _ York.” She shook her head and turned away, throwing open the door and stomping outside. “I know you mean well. But you can’t stop me.” With that, she pulled out her keys and slid into her car that was parked in the lot. York hovered helplessly outside the cruiser, tapping on the glass. 

“Carolina--” She was adjusting her mirrors, and slammed the key into the ignition. 

“York,” she whispered, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her through the bulletproof glass. As the engine started, she fixed him with another look-- but this one wasn’t as aggressive. It was more… apologetic. York tapped once more on the glass, hoping for at least one more attempt to dissuade her, but she revved the engine, warning him to back up. 

He did reluctantly, and watched as Carolina peeled out of the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

“Well, out of the frying pan and into the fire,” North muttered, his voice humming low so only South could hear. She snorted. 

“I bet I can take about fifty of ‘em. How about you?” She could feel the rise and fall of his back as he sighed inaudibly, and smirked. 

“Ready?” he murmured, sliding a hand slowly behind his waist for his gun. She nodded slightly. “3…” 

“Hey, asshole! Put your hands where I can see them!” the man shouted, cocking his gun. 

“2…” 

“I said freeze!” 

“1…” South tensed up, eyeing the guy nearest to her and mapping out how she could take out as many as possible. She felt the muscles in North’s back tighten as well, preparing to make one last stand. 

“Go!” And all hell broke loose. 

South lunged out at North’s command, body-slamming into the thug she had been eyeing. She felt the warmth of North on her back leave her as he leapt forward in the opposite direction, leaving her feeling strangely cold and alone. Nevertheless, South fought for her life, relying on the heat of battle to warm her back up. She never expected them to make it very far, but with a surprise attack, maybe they could get a fighting chance. And South wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

But something was off. She should be peppered full of bullets by now, she realized as she knocked one guy out with a blow to the head, and yanked his gun out of his hands. She spun around, beginning to fire indiscriminately (making sure not to hit her borther of course) and was startled to find just how many guys had been taken out. Who the hell had done all that? It certainly wasn’t her. 

She saw a flash of red in the midst of all the brown and black-- a dancing, twirling streak of red that seemed to be flying around the room, taking on a hundred thugs all at the same time. 

“It’s her!” North shouted, and South snapped back to where she was, finding her brother yet again at her back. South instantly knew who he was talking about, recognizing the familiar whip of her red ponytail as she spun, taking down three men with a single fist. Carolina. 

“What the hell is  _ she _ doing here?” South snarled, shoving a guy into the wall and firing a few rounds at his manly parts. North had no reply, only managing to shrug helplessly as he fired his pistol. 

 

In the center of it all, Carolina kicked a thug in the face, feeling the familiar  _ crunch  _ of bones beneath her feet. His head snapped around, and he fell to the floor, moaning. She grabbed his assault rifle and unloaded a spray of bullets towards a clump of thugs. They went down with a chorus of cries, and Carolina was proud to say that not one of them breathed a final breath. 

But there were so many, and she had to consider North and South’s safety as well. She had managed to break her way in through the top floor of the warehouse and fight her way down. It had been pretty easy to locate the twins-- just follow the mad rush to the first floor.

But even with Carolina as backup, the three of them soon found themselves pressed up against one side of the wall, each dodging bullets and fighting for their lives.

“Do you think you can make it to the back?” Carolina shouted to the two of them, gesturing toward an unguarded door on the east side. South didn’t bother to respond, but North met her eyes and nodded. “I’ll clear a path for you!” She yanked another assault rifle from someone’s hands and readied it. “On my mark! Ready?” Carolina rolled in front of the twins, staying low and aiming her rifle. “Now!” 

And with that shout, she began firing, laying down a wide spray of cover fire. The gun rattled and bucked in her hands, but she held tight to it. Row after row of men fell, and though she tried to aim as low as possible, she knew that many of them would not survive. 

North and South stayed behind Carolina’s fire, making their way towards the steel doors in the back. Though she was taking care of most of them, Carolina hadn’t managed to draw all of the thugs away, and the twins found themselves ducking under a smattering of bullets. But they were  _ so close  _ to the doors, and it wouldn’t be much farther now-- 

“South!” North shouted from behind her, and South felt his palms on her back, shoving her forward through the door as a gunshot rang out from behind her.

Carolina cursed as her finger clicked on the trigger, and threw aside her gun. She cursed again as she saw North fall to the ground with a groan. And she cursed one more time as a wall of thugs formed between her and the twins. She gritted her teeth and ducked as the wall of people unleashed more fire down on her. 

_ I’m not strong enough!  _ Carolina thought desperately, as she narrowly managed to avoid a round of bullets and duck behind a large crate. She caught her breath and used a shiny scrap of metal on the ground as a mirror, reflecting South crouching over her brother and lifting him over her shoulders.  _ They were right…  _

No. Fuck  _ they,  _ it was Carolina who got to decide if she was good enough or not. And, seeing the twins limping out the door with a bunch of guys on their heels, she realized it didn’t matter if she  _ was  _ strong enough or not. She simply  _ had _ to be. 

So Carolina took a deep breath and pulled a dagger from her belt. She glanced in the shard again, charting a path to the door. She held the knife tight to her chest, carefully leaning around the side of the crate. She took another deep breath. 

And she flew. 

“North!  _ Damn it!”  _ South grabbed blindly through the doorway and snagged one of her brother’s limp hands. He groaned as she tugged with all her might, bullets peppering the ground around them. The Freelancer gritted her teeth and threw one of his arms over her shoulder, half dragging, half carrying the small amount of distance left until they made it outside. It was only a few feet, but all South could feel was the wetness of his blood against her stomach, and that few feet stretched itself into miles upon miles. 

And then, like the heavens had opened, and a chorus of angels began to sing hymns to them, Carolina swooped in behind, throwing one of North’s arms over her shoulder as well.There weren’t really any angels-- in fact, there wasn’t much of anything. The room was strangely silent, and if South had the capacity to look, she bet that she would find much of the room decimated. But she still froze in shock, eyes darting over the blood that painted Carolina’s face and hands, the chunks of ripped flesh that still clung disgustingly to her uniform. 

“Damn…” South whispered in awe. 

“Let’s go,” Carolina said simply, and together, the three of them limped out the door, paying no mind to the weak rattling of a half-assed shot that hit the wall far above their heads. 

 

They didn’t even see the police cruiser pull out of the shadows behind them and head towards the city.

 

* * *

 

“Well?” The Director asked, too fucking high and mighty to even turn to look at her. 

“I got your fucking data,” Tex spit, throwing a hard drive on his desk. “From the encrypted database.” 

“And the copies?” 

“There is none. I erased the database once I left.” 

“Perfect.” Tex gritted her teeth. 

“Mind telling me exactly what I’m doing for you? I’m not your personal errand runner.” At this, the Director spun around in his chair. He picked up the hard drive and closely examined it with a piercing gaze. 

“Trust me, Agent Texas,” he drawled, gripped the USB tight in his hands. Tex watched the action with suspicion. “You are doing very well.” 

“Right…” she muttered. “That clears everything up.” The Director didn’t respond, but simply moved the drive into a drawer in his desk. She followed the movement. 

“You are dismissed,” he said, turning toward the computer. “Come on in, Counselor.” Tex jumped and spun around. The Counselor seemingly materialized out of the shadows with a creepy smile on his face. Tex shivered in disgust. The two of them together always gave her the chills. They were definitely scheming  _ something.  _

“Yes sir,” she said, snapping a salute and then retreating out of the room, leaving her nagging suspicions of the Counselor and the Director behind. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey babe.” CT smiled, cupping her palms around the small screen she held in her hands.

“Hey,” she said softly. “How are things on your end?” The man she was talking to scratched his head and frowned. 

“We’ve had a setback.” CT’s smile fell. 

“What happened?” 

“Some crazy cops got it in their heads to attack the Nest. Apparently they made it out with some pretty valuable info.” She lifted her head, glancing around the room quickly before turning back to the screen. 

“You got a description?” 

“Yeah… two blondes and a red-head. Sound like your guys?” CT sighed. 

“Seems like it. The twins and Carolina. I didn’t know they had a mission…” The man on her screen shrugged. “What’d they get?” He frowned and leaned over, typing a few things on a computer. 

“Locations… on our Genetics branch, looks like. And they hacked an encrypted database, but erased everything. I don’t know what was on it.” 

“File type?” 

“It was a… video, I think. It… damn. It was on Control’s private server. He is  _ not  _ going to be happy about that.” CT groaned and shifted against the wall she was leaning on. 

“Shit,” she muttered, anxiously wiping her face. 

“Connie…” the man started. She glanced at him. “Maybe it’s time to start thinking about getting you out of there--” She shook her head. 

“No,” CT said firmly. “Not yet. There’s still more I need to do here.” The man sighed. “Soon,” she promised. “Just… give me a bit more time.” As he nodded reluctantly, CT heard the door to the training room open. 

“I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Alright, bye. Be safe.” 

“You too.” 

“Connie?” CT shut off her phone, sticking it in her back pocket as she turned to meet Wash’s inquisitive eyes. 

“Hey Wash. What do you need?” He gestured to the bag he was holding. 

“Knife training” he said slowly, as if it were obvious. It was, but CT had completely forgotten about it. He studied her face and narrowed his eyes. “Are you alright?” CT cursed inwardly, making the conscious effort to wipe away her emotions. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“But--” 

“Leave it alone, Wash!” He backed up the tiniest bit, raising his hands in surrender. 

“Alright, alright,” he said hastily. “Um, maybe I should come back later?” 

“No, now’s fine.” Wash sighed. 

“Okay then.” 

This was going to be a long practice for both of them.

 

* * *

 

“Again!” CT shouted, smacking Wash’s arm that drooped just the tiniest bit out of form. He groaned, sweat beading on his neck, and lunged out with his rubber knife, slashing away at an invisible opponent. CT watched, mildly impressed. Wash had greatly improved his knife skills, even in the small amount of time they had spent together. He was good, she had to admit, maybe even better than her. 

“By the way,” Wash grunted as he slashed to the right. “Have you seen the twins? I can’t seem to find North--” CT stuck out her leg, and Wash, distracted, clumsily stumbled over it. 

“You’ve got to adapt, Wash!” she sighed as he readjusted his stance. “I heard they went out on a mission.” He glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. 

“But there weren’t any missions scheduled today,” he frowned. “Response only.” CT shrugged and watched as Wash ran the drill again, from the beginning. 

“What makes you think the Director is going to tell  _ you _ anything?” Wash fell quiet at that, concentrating hard on his drill. 

He lunged, swished and stabbed as he mused the question over. Connie was right, he realized. He had been relying on the assumption that he had been told everything. But the Director had no obligation to him. Wasn’t Wash even assigned to a wild goose chase for his first ever case? And he still didn’t know why Maine had gotten shot (he wasn’t particularly chatty on the subject). The higher-ups had proven time and time again that they had no qualms about lying to Wash. Connie was right. Why  _ should _ he trust them? 

As if she could read his mind, CT sighed and tossed him a water bottle. 

“Alright, that’s enough for today,” she said. Wash gratefully took a large gulp of his water. “You’re getting better and better,” she said grudgingly, and Wash swelled at the compliment. He grinned and nodded to her, but her phone went off before he could say anything. She pulled it out, frowning. 

CT sighed and picked up her towel. 

“Come on,” she said, gesturing to Wash. “We need to go.” 

“What?” he asked, confused by the sudden change of pace. “Why?” CT was already halfway out the door. 

“Apparently, North’s been shot,” she tossed over her shoulder, and left the room. Wash nearly dropped the water bottle he was holding and, forgetting his current exhaustion, sprinted after her. 

“Woah! Wait up!” 

 

* * *

 

“Hey South?” 

“What is it? Try not to talk to much.” 

“Do you know what was on the hard drive? You know, the one I risked my life to get?” 

“I managed to catch a glimpse of it. It’s a location of something called… the Sarcophagus? Ugh.” 

“Huh. It better be pretty damn important.” 

“Yeah. It better.”

 

* * *

 

“You wanted to see me?” Carolina looked up from her desk, loose strands of hair falling around her face. Dark bags hung under her eyes, and frankly, Wash was surprised she was still sitting upright. 

“Yes. Come in, Wash.” He nodded and sat down in a chair across from her. Carolina shuffled a few papers in her hands, thumbing through them. He waited patiently until she sighed. 

“I heard you were having some financial trouble.” Oh. So that’s what this is about. Wash didn’t even want to think about it, but he nodded when she glanced at him. 

“Can you help me?” She shook her head quickly, and Wash felt something sink in his chest, the hopes he didn’t even know he had. He glared down at his lap. “Then what do you want?” He was almost surprised at the malice twinging his voice, and Carolina raised an eyebrow. 

“Well. Only if you’re interested, of course.” She waited, but he said nothing. “I’ve been told to offer you a full-time job here at BGPD.” That caught his attention. Wash jerked his head up. “It won’t be enough to cover your debt.” Carolina warned quickly. “But it’s probably more than you’ll make as a therapist.” 

“Psychologist,” Wash corrected absently. “How much?” 

“$95,000 a year.” He nearly fell out of his chair. 

“Where is the department getting all this funding from?!” Carolina shrugged and smiled. 

“I take it you’re interested then?” Wash barely had to consider it. He didn't exactly have another option, and besides, he was getting pretty good at his job.  _ Enjoying _ it, even. The unit had quickly become his family; the station, his home.

“I’m in,” he said finally, and Carolina nodded. 

“I’ll let the Director know then.” Wash began to stand up. “And Wash? You’re a hell of an officer. We’re lucky to have you.” He tried and failed to fight back a grin. 

“I’m lucky to be here. Thank you.” 

He could barely hold back to the insane urge to  _ skip  _ out of her office.

 

* * *

 

_ Number Blocked _

XXXXXX: Please explain to me again how you could allow this to happen. 

CC: Sir, I have no excuse for this. All I know is that we had a third of our members at the Nest, and almost every single one was incapacitated within an hour. 

SF: It’s those damn Freelancers!

CC: Yeah, yeah, shut up.

SF: I don’t think you have the right to tell me that.

CC: What, are you implying that you-- single handedly-- could have stopped them? 

SF: If I am given the chance, I will.

CC: Oh sure, go right ahead, kill yourself. God knows there’ll be one less idiot in the world.

XXXXX: Gentlemen, enough. SF, I trust you will make good on your promise

CC: Wait, what?! Seriously?! You’re letting  _ him _ go after the Freelancers?! 

XXXXX: It’s true, I hadn’t expected it to come to this. But you have failed me, CC, so now I must resort to more… direct tactics

CC: Are you kidding me?! 

XXXXX: On a different note, what is the status of our mole? 

CC: She’s fine, she wants to stay a little longer. 

CC: Look, I can prove myself, I promise! Just give me another chance! 

XXXXX: No. Is the mole continuing to cooperate? 

CC: Yes.

XXXXX: Good. And you know what to do if she doesn’t? 

CC: It won’t come to that.

XXXXX: Excellent. SF, please report to Control for your debriefing. I want you on guard as soon as possible

CC: What? What’s he guarding? 

SF: Yes sir. 

CC: What about the Nest?   
XXXXX: Abandon it. It has been compromised. 

CC: But it still has it’s uses… 

XXXXX: I said no. I want you and your men out in an hour.

CC: Fine.

XXXXX: And CC?   
CC: What is it? 

XXXXX: Isn’t it so much easier when everyone simply... obeys?

CC: …

CC: Yes sir.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again, my bad.   
> A big fight scene, finally! I love writing these, but unfortunately, I suck at it...   
> We're nearing the end of Part 1 *sniff* ah, the good days! After Ch 10, there's probably going to be a bit of a hiatus while I plan out where the story's gonna go (I know, very disappointing to my few followers).   
> Enjoy and thanks for sticking with me!


	10. And the Walls Came Crashing Down

Wash fidgeted nervously with the hem of his shirt. His eyes darted around the room, passing briefly over the stony faces of his unit. They stood at attention with eerie stillness, each with almost a meditative look on their face. 

_ Deep breaths,  _ Wash told himself over and over again-- but even though he tried, it didn’t work. 

Maine, towering next to him, seemed to sense Wash’s nerves, and lightly nudged him. They weren’t supposed to move, but Wash glanced up at him anyway and offered a weak smile. Maine didn’t return it, yet Wash could see reassurance in his eyes. And that look managed to  calm him down better than any amount of deep breaths could have. 

_ Wash knocked on the door to Maine’s office, balling his other hand into a fist in his sweatshirt pocket. Maine looked up from his desk and grunted. Wash cleared his throat.  _

_ “So… you’re still coming over tonight, right?” Maine snorted, and Wash felt a little childish for asking. But he just wanted to check, to make sure Maine still wanted to hang out with him…  _

_ The man, as always, knew exactly what Wash was thinking. He rolled his eyes, and typed something on his computer. Wash edged forward into the office, eyeing the screen with interest as Maine turned it towards him-- it had been a while since Maine had actually written something down for him to read.  _

[Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.] _ Wash felt a grin creep across his face. _ [Congrats on the promotion by the way.]  _ He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.  _

_ “You heard about that? Yeah well… it’s a good opportunity.”  _

[So you took it?]  _ Wash nodded. Maine raised an eyebrow.  _ [Good luck.] 

_ “Thanks.” Maine gestured at Wash’s sweatshirt, then to the clock. “Yeah I know, I’m going to change.”  _

[I’ll come with you. Let me finish this report.]  _ Wash nodded and-- _

 

The door to the room slammed open, yanking Wash out of the memory. 

“Agents, your mission today is by far the most important you have undertaken to date.,” the Director said, in his loud, booming voice. “As our number one, Carolina will be leading from the field.” Wash saw Carolina straighten out of the corner of his eye.  

“Thank you sir.” She pulled out her datapad, and with a few fluid motions, projected a map of the city on the big screen in front of them. “Okay, here’s what we have. As you may have heard, there is suspected Insurrectionist activity in--” she pointed to a localized region, and the map zoomed in on it. “--this area. Our intel, retrieved by the twins, says that members of the gang have acquired a high level ‘asset’, and are holding it in this secure location.” 

The map zoomed in further, singling out a tall building, which Wash recognized as one of the office buildings for some technological industry downtown. 

“Some of you might know it as the Hargrove Tower. It’s a forty story building in the middle of an urban environment.” 

“How many targets?” Wyoming piped up, the glint of the map reflected in his eyes.  
“Enough to fill a forty story building.” 

“So… that’s a lot of targets,” Wyoming muttered. Carolina nodded, steel in her eyes. 

“We’re up to it. Our job is to infiltrate the building, work our way up to where the Sarcophagus is being held, and secure it.” 

“The Sarcophagus?” North asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“That’s what we are calling the primary directive,” the Director cut in. 

“But since this is a high level objective…” 

 

_ “For the last time, it’s not a date!” Wash groaned, as Donut clapped his hands together and bounced giddily outside the apartment door. He pushed his way past Wash and into the small living space.  _

_ “Call it what you like,” Donut dismissed. “What do you have planned?” Wash blinked.  _

_ “Planned?”  _

_ “You know. Meal, movie, drinks, late night s--”  _

_ “Okay, okay,” Wash said, cutting Donut off hastily. “Well… I was thinking just pasta and salad but--”  _

_ “Pasta? How romantic!”  _

_ “You know what? I changed my mind.” Donut shook his head.  _

_ “No no, pasta is perfect! It’s romantic. Now, let’s talk lighting.” Wash groaned, running an exasperated hand through his hair.  _

_ “For the last time Donut--”  _

 

“Team A will consist of me, Wash and Maine,” Carolina said, gesturing to the upper half of the tower. “We will work infiltration on the package’s storage facility.” She took a breath. “York is still in the infirmary, so Wash, you will have to pull lockpicking duty.” Wash jumped as she said his name and scratched the back of his head. 

“Um… okay. Guess I’ll re-read my field manual on the way over,” he said, calculating in his head the chances of him being able to pull this off. They weren’t very high. 

“Hey, don’t be so quick to give away my job,” someone said from the back of the room. Wash spun around, and started in surprise. 

_ York _ sauntered up next to Carolina, the most smug look plastered on his face, and he casually waved to the unit. 

“I thought you were still on Command duty?” Carolina muttered to him, fighting to keep a small smile off her face. He shrugged. 

“According to their records I am,” he responded slyly. 

“How’s your eye?” 

“Never better,” York said, taking a look at the map on the big screen. “Look, I couldn't let you guys have all the fun without me. Besides, you need someone to get you in,” he added, glancing briefly at Wash, who flushed. 

Wash leaned over to Carolina. “Listen I'm happy to see him too, but this mission, I don't know…” Of course, he was immensely relieved that he wouldn’t have to refresh his lock-picking skills (which were virtually non-existent), but York was still supposed to be recovering. 

“Hey, if York says he’s good, then he’s good,” Carolina sighed, folding her arms. Wash wasn’t too sure about that, but he nodded anyway. 

“It’s your call boss.” 

“It’s settled then,” the Director cut in finally. “York will join Team A and get them in the facility. 

“Thank you sir.” 

“What about South?” CT piped up. The Director shot her a glare. 

“Officer South will not be accompanying you on this mission,” he snarled. North looked away. 

“I guess the world’s a tough place when you move down a rank,” CT muttered. Wash narrowed his eyes. South had been moved down a rank? It must have been from the mission the twins had just run. Wash wondered exactly what had happened. “And where’s Tex? Will she be joining us?” 

“That’s enough questions, Connecticut,” the Director snapped. 

“Notice he didn’t say no…” CT remarked snidely. Fortunately, Carolina stepped in before the Director could retaliate, done talking with York. 

“Team B, your mission is simple: crowd control. If anything goes wrong, you need to be down on the streets to handle it. Team A, you have more of a challenge. Mainly, the Sarcophagus is an unknown.”

“How unknown are we talking?” Wash piped up. 

“Unknown in that we don't know its size or its weight or its dimensions. We just know it will have these markings somewhere on the exterior.” She pulled up an image on the screen of a symbol with three rings. Wash narrowed his eyes. Somehow, the symbol seemed strangely familiar. 

“I saw those same markings at the warehouse,” North said, also squinting at the image. 

“Correct. That facility stored the primary objective,” the Director responded. 

“Do we know what's inside it?” Wash asked. 

“Yes, we know.” Wash waited for him to elaborate, but the Director refuse to say more.

“How do we know what's in it, but not know how big it is?” CT asked, seemingly unable to resist. She ducked back when the Director scowled at her. “Sorry sir.” 

“We have a job to do people. Let's do it right and come home safe,” Carolina cut in. 

“That is all. You are dismissed.” The Director waved his hand and turned away, as if they weren’t worth his time anymore. 

“Yes sir,” the Unit chorused, each snapping a salute and filing out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Wash was back to fidgeting with his shirt, but this time, he had on a Kevlar vest and was fully equipped with two pistols, four knives and an assault rifle. It seemed a bit like overkill, but then again, as someone who was inexperienced, Wash would greatly appreciate a wide range of firearms between him and his opponent. 

Carolina gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white. Wash frowned, unsure of why she was acting so nervous. He caught her glancing at York occasionally, and an inkling of an idea began to form. 

York was equally nervous, Wash could tell, but he was damn good at hiding it. He was leaning back in his seat (cramping Wash in the backseat), fiddling with the dials on the radio. He tapped along to the beat of the staticky music with his fingers on the dashboard. Epitome of relaxed. But the way York twitched his head every time the car passed a group of people on the sidewalk gave him way. 

Maine, as usual, was stoic the entire ride, his eyes closed… almost like he was sleeping. Wash honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he was. Maine  _ was _ the most experienced officer on the unit, after all. And besides, why  _ shouldn’t  _ a six-and-a-half-foot tall mass of pure muscle be anything but calm? 

And then there was Wash. Wash, then newbie. The rookie. The couldn’t-even-appear-normal-if-he-tried. This was actually, he realized, his first mission with the entire unit. Sure, he’d been out of missions before with Maine-- but they were mostly just small busts, or catching a couple of shop-lifters in the alleys. Nothing of this scale whatsoever. 

The car turned a sharp corner, throwing Wash hard against the door. 

“Sorry,” muttered Carolina. 

“It’s fine,” Wash responded, pushing himself back up. The car pulled up to the stoplight, and Team B’s cruiser slid up next to them, and Wash looked incredulously out the window. 

North was driving, hands relaxed on the wheel. He glanced over at Team A’s car and gave a helpless gesture to the backseat-- where Wyoming and CT were engaged in an intense shouting match. As Wash watched, CT unbuckled and threw herself at Wyoming, knocking them both onto the floor. York rolled down his window. 

“Having fun?” he shouted, a grin on his face. North rolled his eyes. 

“Wanna switch?” York laughed, pulling something out of his pocket. He stretched to hand it to North through the window. 

“Here.” North glanced at the iPod suspiciously, and York winked at him. “You’re welcome.” 

And with that, the light turned green, each car going their own separate way.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright everyone, spread out. What we need is here somewhere…” Carolina commanded as she, Wash and Maine strode into an enormous room filled with weapons and bits of technology. Wash glanced incredulously over the tables and tables filled with strange looking devices, carefully picking one up. He examined it. 

“What the hell?” he muttered. Wasn’t this supposed to be an office building?

Next to him, Maine picked up an odd looking rifle with…  _ is that a knife attached? _ He raised an eyebrow and grunted. Wash shrugged. 

“That’s a good look.” It was. The brute of a gun fit perfectly with Maine’s threatening demeanor. Satisfied, he slung it onto his back. 

“Take as many scans as possible, there may be other things here we can use,” Carolina continued. 

York paged Carolina over the radio as Wash stalked up to what seemed like a lab table. He shifted around some papers, which all seemed like reports of some sort. He paged through a few of them and narrowed his eyes. 

A lot of it was tech jargon, but he could pick out a few words here and there. A few dates stuck out at him. 

_ “08/07/17: Experiment Alpha in critical condition. Not expected to last longer. Will breed with other male. Results uncertain.”  _

_ “09/17/17: Breeding successful. Time is low, won’t be much longer. Beginning experiment Beta” _

_ “10/07/17: Omega is born. Seemed to inherit Alpha’s traits. Running further tests.”  _

_ “12/18/17: FOUND: Gene X!”  _

Next to the last entry was the symbol they were supposed to be looking for. 

Wash furrowed his brows. Omega… could this be referring to Tex’s k-9? He pocketed the file-- he’ll examine it later. His eyes drifted over the rest on the table… and froze on a large duffel bag. He edged over to it, and carefully opened the top. He exhaled as he saw what was inside: a large, black box with the markings on it. 

“Hey boss? I found it!” he shouted over his shoulder, and backed away so Carolina could see. 

She jogged over to him, and looked inside the duffel bag, nodding. 

“That’s it alright. York? We found the sarcophagus. We’re making our way up to you now.” Maine joined them as well and Carolina gestured to him. 

“You think you can take this?” Maine grunted and picked up the duffel with ease, though the way it sagged on his back suggested it weighed a lot more than he let on. “Alright. Maine, you head down and get this duffel to command.” He grunted. “Wash, you and I will head up to roof to get York.” Wash nodded. 

“Good luck Maine,” Carolina said, and Maine began to stride out the door. “Come on Wash.”   
Together, the two jogged out of the room and down a hallway. 

“Boss,” Wash started to say as they ran. “I found something else in that room you might want to see--” 

But Carolina had stopped, eyes fixed straight ahead. She slowly pulled out a pistol and aimed it forward. Wash followed her gaze and tensed. 

“Holy shit,” he breathed, gripping his own firearm tightly. 

Across from them stood a man that almost rivaled Maine in height and muscle. Thick brown hair fell over his dead black eyes. The man grinned, and a grotesque tattoo of… Shark teeth? stretched with his mouth. The ink rippled over the skeletal structure of his face, and Wash fought the impulse to back up. 

Oh, and he also seemed to be covered head to foot in bullet-proof armor, with an entire belt full of different sized knives strapped around his waist, the metal glinting in the sunlight glaring through the windows. Wash blinked. 

_ “The victims were all murdered basically the same way: a stab wound to the lower back. But it’s never in the same place.”  _

_ “An inconsistency only a knife thrower would have.”  _

“Boss?” Wash muttered, unable to take his eyes off the tattoo that almost seemed to mock him with that wicked grin. Carolina didn’t reply, but her haunches tensed. Obviously, she had reached the same conclusion as he.

_ “From there, it’s all forensics. The depth of the knife, the type, the width of the blade. They had been factoring in a closer range, yes. But the forensics team determined that it was still the same person.”  _

“Take cover on my mark,” Carolina muttered to him. Wash nodded. The man across from them slowly, deliberately, pulled two ridged blades from his belt, tossing them each in his hand. Wash swallowed. 

_ “See these ridges? They’re designed rip through the victim’s internal organs. Every movement, every breath, and the knife would cut deeper into your chest.”  _

Wash couldn’t remember who told him that. Maybe someone from the forensics team. 

_ “Basically, these knives were purely made to kill someone in the most effective, yet painful, way possible.”  _

Great. 

“ _ Now!”  _ Carolina screamed, snapping Wash back to reality as he instinctively leapt for cover. She opened fire on the man, unloading round after round at him, but he only continued forward as if it were flies attacking, and not bullets. 

“What the fuck is with this guy?” Wash shouted over the noise. Carolina didn’t answer, however, as she was too busy dodging a barrage of knives that flew her way. 

“Damn it,” she cursed, desperately scanning the room for anything they could use. On the other side, Wash leaned out from around a wall, emptying his magazine at the guy. Nothing seemed to touch him. 

“Carolina?” he shouted. She sighed. 

“This is going to mean a ton of red tape,” she muttered. “Wash! Shoot to kill!” He hesitated, but nodded, shifting positions to better a better angle of the guy. The next rounds Wash fired were aimed for his head. 

 

_ “Gabriel Smith, husband of Angelica Smith and father of two children, was brutally murdered in a back alley last week...” The lights from the television danced across the darkened walls as Wash took another sip of his beer. He glanced down at the file he held in his hands.  _

_ “He was a good man.” A sobbing woman appeared on the screen. Smith’s wife, Wash assumed. “I don’t know what to do now that he’s gone.” Wash took another drink.  _

_ “Gabriel Smith was the CEO of a new technological business that was beginning to boom. Several other companies in that industry are known for their ruthlessness with their competitors. Was this a result of that competition?” Wash snorted.  _

_ “Try again,” he muttered, then sighed heavily. It was a shame, really. Gabriel Smith had seemed like a nice person-- healthy lifestyle, marathon runner, donated frequently to charity…  _

_ A picture of two small children appeared on the TV, their eyes wet. Wash couldn’t bring himself to look away.  _

 

“Shit!” Wash cursed as his finger clicked on the trigger. He shook his rifle, but to no use. Jammed. He tossed it aside, and looked around desperately. Carolina was in a similar position. 

Then his eyes landed on the door to the lab, and he got an idea. 

“Boss!” he shouted. She looked over to him, never stopping pulling the trigger. He pointed to the doors. She followed his finger and, realization dawning on her, nodded. “Cover me!” 

He took a deep breath, then ran out from behind the wall. He made a break for the doors, throwing himself at them. A flash of metal, and a loud  _ thunk,  _ and a knife buried itself in the wood next to him, mere centimeters from his head. 

“Son of a bitch,” Wash cursed, yanking open the door and ducking into the room. He heard Carolina’s shots get nearer, and knew that she had followed him into the room. He glanced around, fingers itching, for something on the tables that they could use. 

Wash selected one at random, firing it the second the man stepped in the room, but his aim was off. Instead of catching the man in the head, the round hit the floor at his feet and--

“What the hell?” Wash shrieked, staring incredulously at the gun. “It bounces?!” 

“Get down!” Carolina shouted, flying at him out of nowhere and tackling him to the ground just as a jet of white hot fire streamed over their heads. They both scrambled to take shelter behind a desk. Wash peered around the edge. 

Apparently, the guy had given up with the knives, and found himself a… flamethrower. Wash shook his head. This battle was getting crazier by the second. 

“Stay low,” Carolina whispered, gripping an object she had picked up in her hand. 

“Why? What are you going to do?” Wash asked. She didn’t respond, but opened her palm and showed him the object she had found. “Oh.” 

“Tell me when he’s going to fire at us again,” she said, fiddling with some buttons on the object. Wash nodded, and looked around the edge of the desk again. 

The man with the shark face was gearing up for another round of fire. 

“Get ready,” Wash warned. The man adjusted the nozzle and aimed it toward the desk. “And…”The man pulled the trigger. “Now!” 

At his call, Carolina pressed a button on the object, jumped up, and launched it towards the man. The object hurtled through the air, colliding with the stream of fire.

The instant the two met, the room exploded. 

Wash tugged Carolina down back to the floor, pressing his back against the table and covering his ears. A ball of heat and fire engulfed the room, so unbearably hot that Wash nearly thought he had died and woken up in hell. 

The explosion seemed to last forever, wave after wave of searing heat slamming into the two officers. Windows blew, glass shards zipped around the room, and chunks of the ceiling rained down on them. 

Then finally came the impact, a shockwave of force so powerful that the world crumbled beneath their very feet, and they were each thrown forward nearly fifteen feet in the air.

Wash slammed into the wall, hearing a very definite  _ crunch,  _ and he thought maybe he broke something, but he couldn’t tell one pain from another because his whole body hurt. 

Carolina had been tossed clear across the room like a limp doll, sliding across the floor and--  _ too far, too far,  _ she thought desperately, hands grabbing out at something, anything to hold on to, but she was flying too far and too fast and she slid right out the hole where a window used to be. 

“No!” she screamed, and finally, her fingers caught on a tiny ledge. She gripped to it tightly, but her whole body hurt, and she was dizzy and  _ don’t look down,  _ and her fingers were slipping, she’s going to  _ fall-- _

 

“Ow,” Wash managed through a swollen tongue and a mouth full of blood. He rolled over of the floor, the whole world a blur of smoke, sweat and tears. Somebody screamed. The floor trembled. “‘Lina?” he groaned, trying to sit up, but he could barely even move. “Carolina?” 

Through the smoke and the ash, he could barely make out a figure. He lifted his head.

“Carolina?” Wash tried again, but the figure didn’t respond. A wave of dizziness and exhaustion overcame him. He laid his head back down and closed his eyes, a shuddering exhale escaping him. 

 

Carolina grunted, trying and failing to swing her other arm up to grip the small ledge. Twice she tried, but the only thing she managed to do was slip a little further. She opened her mouth to swear loudly, but a breeze came along, and she had to concentrate very hard on staying tight to the building.  _ Shitshitshit,  _ was her internal monlogue, and she barely had the capacity to think much else. 

_ I’m going to die.  _

The realization came to her suddenly, and the world fell away. 

The wind stilled, the ringing in her head faded, the noise of screams and sirens and crashes silenced, and nothing else existed except her. Carolina. Her red hair whipped around her head, pulled loose by the explosion, and the memory slammed on her mind suddenly. 

_ The girl staring back in the mirror was not her. It wasn’t. There was a ferocity in her green eyes, and her lips were pulled back in almost a savage snarl. Red decorated her hands, her face, the sink, the mirror, her hair. It was all over her, a terrifying, bloody red. Red.  _

_ The door to the bathroom flew open and He stormed into the room. She saw him freeze, expressions on his face flickering from shock to terror to confusion and finally, anger.  _

_ “Naomi! What the hell are you doing?” He demanded, but she refused to flinch. She only glared back at the girl in the mirror. Undeterred, he stomped forward and grabbed her hand roughly, spinning her around to stare directly into his rage-filled eyes. She gritted her teeth.  _

_ “Fuck. Off,” she spat in his face, and, for the first time, she saw something more than rage or fear on his face. It was almost… sadness.  _

 

Carolina tilted her head so her hair was out of her face. Her fingers were starting to burn, her muscles straining. She gritted her teeth, attempting to channel the girl in the mirror… but what more could she do? She dared not to move anymore, it could mean slipping and falling to a certain death. But even  _ she  _ had a limit, and Carolina was quickly reaching it. She could not hold on to wait for someone to stumble upon her. And Wash… she didn’t know where he had even landed. It was likely he had already tumbled out the window, or vaporized in the explosion. 

Carolina wouldn’t give up without a fight. She had promised herself that. But what was there left to fight? Gravity? She wasn’t  _ that _ good. 

 

_ “Why’d you do it?” York asked, allowing a strand of red to slip through his fingers. “Don’t get me wrong, I like it. It suits you. But… why?” Carolina sighed, taking a sip of her drink.  _

_ “Don’t laugh,” she warned. He held up his hands and looked at her curiously. She hesitated. “I… I saw a picture of my mom the other day.” York didn’t react, only watched her patiently. She was grateful for that. “She died when I was little. In the army. After she died… my father took away all the pictures he had of her. I guess he just didn’t want the reminder.” Carolina paused, taking a deep breath and tracing the condensation on her glass. “I found one though, as I was going through the attic. And… she-- she looked like me.” Carolina looked away, subconsciously reaching up to touch her hair. York leaned forward, grabbing her hand. She started, but his gesture wasn’t harsh. It was gentle.  _

_ “Hey,” he said, turning her to look at him. His deep brown eyes were strong and reassuring. “You are not your mother.”  _

_ She had no idea, but that was exactly what she needed to hear.  _

 

_ I’m sorry York,  _ Carolina thought.  _ You deserved better.  _

The last bit of strength left her, and Naomi Church slipped off the ledge. 

 

* * *

 

Someone was shaking Wash awake and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way his body hit the floor and bounced back up again because he still hurt all over. He didn’t like they way he was forced to pry open his eyelids, or the seemingly enormous hands that covered his shoulders, or the splintering pain that shot through his arms every time he moved. 

“M’ awake…” Wash muttered, swatting at the hands. He groaned as another wave of pain and nausea hit him. “Ow… Where ‘m I?” The hands that had been shaking him, pushed him up into a sitting position, and Wash blinked blearily around the room. 

The air was thick and foggy, and Wash coughed a few times as the smoke clutched his lungs. Of course, every movement awakened a new layer of pain. 

The air made it almost impossible to get his bearings, and Wash struggled to remember exactly what had happen. A man with a shark face attacking him… a flash of light, and then--- 

Boom. 

Wash gingerly felt the back of his head, and winced as his fingers landed on something wet. Blood. 

“Ow,” Wash said again. It was all he could manage. 

Someone grunted. Wash jerked his head up and squinted through the smoke. He  _ knew  _ that sound. 

“M’ne?” Wash asked, his voice thick and distant. But as Wash called, he came, and soon Wash was being helped up to his feet and patted on the back. He could barely make out Maine’s looming figure. “Th’nk god… M’ne I think…” He struggled for the words, they wouldn’t come to him.  _ I think I’m broken.  _

But Maine knew. He placed a hand over Wash’s mouth and shook his head, frowning. 

_ Don’t talk.  _ He pulled something out of the duffel on his back, and placed it over Wash’s face. Oxygen.  _ Breathe.  _

Wash did, gratefully. He gulped up lungful after lungful of sweet, sweet air. Pure, fresh, air that tasted like crystals and all things blue. And as he did, some of the smoke cleared from his eyes until all he could see was… 

Maine. 

“Thank you,” Wash muttered, but it was muffled by the mask. Maine placed a hand on his shoulder, and led them through the room and out in the hallway, where the air was a little clearer. 

_ Who did this?  _ Maine grunted, one hand gripping Wash’s shoulder, the other on his .45 

“Carolina,” Wash mumbled, removing the mask after one last deep inhale of oxygen. “We were pinned down, and she found this experimental grenade.” The world was still a little shaky, and Wash stumbled forward as they walked. Maine tightened his grip, and glared straight forward. “I don’t know where she is now…” he trailed off, trying to remember if he had seen where she landed. But the whole thing was so chaotic, it all blended together. Wash just hoped she was alright. 

_ Come on,  _ Maine gestured to the stairway.  _ We need to get to the bottom.  _ Wash coughed and followed. 

“How come?” he asked as he stumbled again. 

_ The building is collapsing.  _

“Oh. Okay, yeah. Let’s go down.” 

 

* * *

 

“Shit!” York shouted as he kicked some guy off the roof of the building. He fell against the railing on the side as the structure rumbled and swayed. Note to self: if a building is collapsing, the  _ last _ place you want to be is on the roof. “Where the hell--” He was cut off as a baddie lunged at him, and York fired off a round into the guy’s chest. He had stopping worrying about “aiming to injure” ever since the explosion. 

Damn. He hoped Carolina was okay. Of course, knowing her, she was probably the one behind the explosion. York smirked, picturing a fireball reflected in her bright green eyes. 

He ducked under a wild swing, and shot his attacker twice. The guy went down, but York couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. He didn’t really care-- they were all pretty much dead anyways. Unless he could find some way off the roof. 

He had tried the door ten minutes ago, but it was electronic and wouldn’t budge. The only other way off was to jump. Or… 

York’s eyes traveled to a maintenance elevator attached to the side of the building. 

“No way,” he muttered. “I am  _ not  _ that crazy.” Underneath him, the building shook and began to tip again. York stumbled forward, tripping over a body on the gravel-- which seemed to be dangerously close to throwing him off the edge. 

“Maybe I am,” York gasped, and stumbled towards the elevator. 

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck?!” CT yelled over the radio. North winced and turned his down a little. “Guys, did you see that?” 

“It was a little hard to miss, mate,” Wyoming quipped. 

“I don’t think there was an explosion planned,” North jumped in before the two could start fighting,  _ again.  _

“You think? I bet this is exactly what the Director wanted.” 

“Hey, come on now…” North warned, managing to sound more like a mom than a leading officer. 

“I guess we can’t exactly count on backup, then,” CT muttered. 

“No,” North agreed, pressing his back against the police car, then turning to fire into a mob of gangers. “We’re on our own.” 

Great. The block was on fire, there were civilians running amok in the midst of a firefight, and they were on their own. Another shot rang out, narrowly missing North. He heard a grunt behind him, and turned. Did it hit a civilian?  
“Shit! Wyoming!” 

 

* * *

 

Falling didn’t take as long as Carolina had thought it would. In fact, it didn’t really feel like falling at all. 

She cracked open an eye, expecting to seeing the ground hurtling toward her at terrifying speeds… but it wasn’t. 

“What…?” Carolina managed, and glanced up at-- 

_ Her hand.  _ Or… no. That wasn’t hers. It was someone else’s, gripping tight at her wrist. And as Carolina watched amazed, another hand reached out. 

“Grab on!” someone shouted--  _ she knew that voice.  _ Carolina obeyed, pulling enough strength from inside her to swing her arm up. The person above her caught hold, tugging upwards, and slowly, gradually, Carolina began to move. 

It was a long process, slow and painful, but eventually the two of them were able to hoist Carolina up and into the room. Once she was safely inside, Carolina collapsed on the floor, panting. 

“Thank… you,” she managed between gasps as the person crouched down next to her. The room was cloudy, so she couldn’t make out a face, but Carolina knew that posture, that figure…. 

_ “Tex?”  _ She scrambled up to her feet, stumbling a little as the ground shook, and backed up. “What are… what are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass, that’s what,” Tex snapped, standing up as well. “You’re welcome, by the way.” Carolina shook her head and turned away, blindly moving through the smoke. “Carolina!” Tex called from behind her. “Come on, don’t be an asshole.” 

“Just leave Tex,” Carolina snarled. “You’re not needed on this mission.” 

“Obviously, I am,” Tex responded snidely. “I literally just saved your  _ fucking life _ thirty seconds ago. Or did you forget that already?” Carolina spun around, facing Tex. 

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” she hissed. “I’m sick of your “secret missions” and sneaking around. This mission was planned without you. Now. Leave. I’m not going to say it again.” With that, Carolina turned and stomped toward the door. She needed to find the rest of her team. 

“I’m not leaving,” Tex warned. “I still have a mission too, you know.” Carolina ignored her and continued walking, the building tilting beneath her feet. 

 

* * *

 

“Okay okay okay, here we go.” York took a deep breath from inside the maintenance elevator, hands clutching the sides as he did his very best not to look down. 

It had been fairly easy to get  _ to  _ the elevator: his attackers, realizing the peril of their situation, had given up trying to kill him and instead focused their efforts on getting through the electronic door. 

_ I’ll give you guys a hint,  _ York thought with a grim smile as the elevator swayed.  _ It won’t open.  _

The building began to tilt again, and an ear-piercing shriek of metal split the air as the infrastructure ripped. 

“Okay…” York said, reaching for the lever. “It’s time to go.” And he tugged it down with all his might. 

Immediately, he knew he made the wrong choice. Instead of a nice, even, controlled descent down the side of the building, the elevator dropped out from underneath his feet and York hurtled down towards the street. 

He screamed several curse words, but the wind ripped them from his mouth, so he settled for tightly clinging to the side of the bucket. He dropped faster and faster, skin stretched over his bones, tears forced out the corners of his eyes as he fell, and though he could barely move to look down, he knew that the asphalt beneath was rushing up to swallow him whole and his world world just kept  _ falling _

Down.

And down.

And down.

And down, until his feet lifted off the floor of the elevator and York decided that was far enough. 

Draining all the strength in his body, York willing himself to move towards the edge of the bucket, where a lever was placed. He gripped the railing on the bucket, and walked his hands over, inching centimeter by centimeter along the side as his feet lifted over his head. 

(York thought vaguely that if the bucket  _ weren’t _ moving, he would be doing quite an impressive hand-stand).

But back to reality, because now York  _ could  _ see the ground, and the alarming speed at which it was approaching made him nauseous. He focused on each centimeter, focused on hand-over-hand-over-hand and finally, he reached the lever. 

It took him several tries, and several position changes before he could grasp the lever, but his hand  _ got  _ there, and that’s what mattered. He readjusted his grip of on the lever, gritted his teeth and pulled--

With a sickeningly loud  _ thunk _ , the elevator jerked to a stop, and York slammed onto the bottom. The bucket swayed back and forth as he tried to get his bearings, immediately pushing himself up. 

“Shit,” he groaned, pressing a hand against his aching head and bracing himself against the side of the bucket. He glanced down toward the street and--  _ nope, that was  _ not  _ the direction he wanted to be looking.  _ He directed his gaze up, and that direction wasn’t particularly better: the building was tilting much too far to the side, and beginning to crumble at the top. Finally, York looked toward the window closest to him, and set his jaw. It was decided. He needed to get off the elevator. Now. 

He began to throw his weight back and forth, getting closer and closer with each swing until the bucket tapped the glass. He moved forward and backward more and more until the glass began to vibrate, then crack, and with a final movement, York lunged forward with all his weight, hoping to God that this worked, and leapt for the window. 

Thankfully, blessedly, the window shattered, and York landed into the smoky room with a grunt, rolling to a stop at the feet of a very astonished Carolina. 

_ “York?”  _ she said, mouth gaping. “What--” 

“Just a heads-up,” York groaned. “Next time, take the stairs.” 

 

* * *

 

_ Take this,  _ Maine grunted, pressing the duffel bag into Wash’s chest.

“But--” he started to protest, except Maine cut him off with a shake of his head. Maine gently pushed him towards the car and opened the door. 

_ Go. Take it to Command.  _

“Maine, I--” But Wash felt himself being shoved into the driver’s seat, and his keys were placed in his lap. 

_ Go,  _ Maine repeated, shutting the door. Wash sighed, and reluctantly turned the ignition. He wanted desperately to stay… but he knew he would be of no use to the rest of the Unit.

Wash cradled his left arm on his knee, wincing as the car bounced over a bump. He sighed. No, he could not stay. His mission now was to take the Sarcophagus to BGPD. He pulled out of the alleyway his car had been parked, and made his way down the crowded and rubble-strewn roads. 

Maine exhaled in relief as Wash disappeared around a corner. He would miss having Wash by his side, of course, but at least the rookie was safe. 

He turned his attention back to the chaos on the streets. Fires raged and people screamed and alarms shrieked. Gunshots echoed throughout the city, and Maine sighed. Something must have happened to Team B if they weren't evacuating the area. He debated whether to go looking for them, or stay and clear the area… but his decision was made for him when a car peeled around a car. 

Maine squinted with confusion as it neared him. The car seemed almost exactly like North’s… but he could see into the drivers window and it was most definitely  _ not  _ North at the wheel. 

Instinctively, Maine pulled out his pistol and began firing at the car. He managed to shatter the backseat windows, causing the car to veer wildly, then turn around. He backed up cautiously as the car sped toward him again, and the front two windows rolled down. 

_ Fuck.  _

Maine leapt toward the nearest abandoned car, hunkering down behind it as bullets struck the pavement around him. They flew at him too fast and too furiously for him to even move, let alone fire back, so he didn't move from his position until the car sped away again. 

Maine grunted and stood up. This was a problem. They had foolishly only brought two cars to the mission, and both of them were out of his reach at the moment… but he couldn't allow a group of armed criminals to haphazardly zoom around the city in a police car. 

So, Maine improvised.

 

* * *

 

“Command? We have injured. Can you send someone to pick us up?” 

“Roger that, Officer North. Where are you now?” 

“We’re at the--” 

“Middle of nowhere, I’d say.” North glared down at Wyoming, who was leaning up against the brick wall of the alley. 

“The injured don’t get to talk,” he reminded the British officer, who sighed, and continued to give Command their location. 

CT was quiet. Very quiet. She too, was leaned up against the wall, her legs hugged tight to her chest. She absent-mindedly played with her pistol that rested in its holster. Wyoming watched her and, oddly, felt a need to comfort her. 

_ “Shit! Wyoming!” North shouted, turning back towards the thug that shot him, but CT got there first. Her magazine empty, and no time to reload, she yanked a small knife from her boot and aimed.  _

_ The man dropped limply to the ground, blood spraying from his forehead, giving North the time he needed to drag Wyoming to safety behind an abandoned car.  _

_ “CT!” North shouted, but the girl was still standing still, shock and horror on her face. “CT!”  _

 

“So…” Wyoming started, clearing his throat. She didn’t react. “I take it that was your first time…” 

“Killing somebody?” CT finished, her voice hoarse. “Yeah.” Wyoming leaned over, placing a hand on her knee. 

“You saved my life,” he reminded her grudgingly. “And that was a pretty good hit, if I do say so.” She flinched, and her face looked incredibly young in the cloudy smoke. Something nagged in the back of his head, something tugged, it was all so familiar. Why was it familiar?

“They can’t spare anyone at the moment, so we’ll be stuck here for a bit,” North reported, nodding at Wyoming. “You okay?” 

“How old are you?” Wyoming blurted out, and North froze. The two of them glanced at CT. She glared at him. 

“What’s it to you?” 

“CT…” North started. 

“Twenty five,” she said defiantly, shifting her glare to the ground at North’s feet. He crouched down to her level, staring at her gently. He exchanged glances with Wyoming. 

“CT. How old are you really?” She didn’t reply, ducking her head closer to her chest. Her gaze flickered from the ground, to the wall behind North, to the gun on his hip, to his kind eyes and back to the ground again. 

“Eighteen,” she mumbled.

North exhaled. “Jesus.” Wyoming sat back against the wall, refusing to look at either of them. North ran a hand through his hair, and stood back up. “Jesus,” he said again, placing a hand to his forehead and shaking his head. 

“I can fight!” CT shot, jumping up in defiance. “I can take care of myself.” 

“Eighteen…” North muttered. 

“I can even--” 

“What? Kill?” North turned to her, throwing his hand down angrily. She faltered, but set her eyes determinedly. 

“If I have to.” 

“Really?” he demanded, stepping closer to her, forcing her to back up. “Is that who you are? A murderer?” CT clenched her jaw. “Is it, CT?”

“Yes!” she spat back into his face. “I joined the department of my own will! I know what I’m doing.” North shook his head. 

“No you don’t,” he sighed, turning away. She growled, eyebrows furrowing in anger and embarrassment. She edged to the left. 

“I don’t?” she spat. “Watch me.” And she turned, sprinting back out into the street and disappearing into a cloud of dust. 

“No! CT!” North shouted, throwing a glance back to Wyoming. 

“I’m good mate, go get her,” Wyoming groaned, waving a hand at him. North nodded. 

“I’ll be back,” he promised, then took off after her.

 

* * *

 

Carolina didn’t know what had happened to Tex, but she didn’t care.

What she  _ did _ care about was the fact that York was in her arms, that he was  _ safe,  _ and so was she, and the shark faced man was dead, and that she had utterly, totally, failed. 

Every step she took, she cursed. Every breath she breathed, she regretted. Every movement, she chastised herself, that Carolina-- weak, pathetic Carolina could barely even protect  _ herself _ , never mind a young, innocent college kid. 

He was a  _ kid,  _ Carolina berated herself, forgetting to correct the tense. A goddamned  _ kid.  _ And he could be injured, or dead for all she knew, and it was  _ her fault.  _ Because she couldn’t even bury one stupid bullet into someone’s brain. No, she had to blow the whole building, endangering the lives of more than a hundred people-- including York. Including Wash. Including Maine, and all of Team B, who was supposed to be at the base of the building. 

Her fault. All of it. 

“Hey,” York muttered as they half-walked, half-limped down the street, lifting his head. One eyelid fluttered weakly. “You okay?” 

“Fine,” Carolina replied tersely, deliberately stepping over a piece of rubble. He didn’t press, but the silence between them begged to be filled, so Carolina pursed her lips and spoke. “I did what I had to.” Although it was more for her own benefit than for his. 

That’s right. She did what she had to. The situation was dire, and they needed an out, quick. If they had stayed any longer, than she and Wash would both definitely be dead now. York would be abandoned and surrounded on the rooftop, and he would have died too. Hell, maybe even  _ Maine  _ might not have made it out. Of course, she still didn’t know if he did or not. 

Carolina would do whatever it takes. That’s what she promised. 

But, if anything, this only told her that she needed to get stronger. 

Because here she was, limping down an apocalyptic, debris-strewn road that was oddly empty and quiet, with York’s arm slung over her shoulder, and her entre unit was lost to the winds, and all she could think was  _ “the worst isn’t over yet.” _

Of course, she was dead right.

 

_ END OF PART 1 _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Deep sigh*   
> All right, here it is. The end of part 1! Like I said, there will be a bit of a break before the second part comes out (I'm having a bit of a block at the moment...).   
> But thank you to everyone who has read/commented/given kudos! I really appreciate all the support and feedback, and I hope you enjoyed the story so far!


	11. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was quite a bit of a hiatus... :|  
> Unfortunately it isn't quite over yet, what with the end of the year tests, and finals, and AP tests and oh my god I need to sleep.   
> But I couldn't, so I wrote this instead! It will still be a while until the next chapter I think...   
> Thanks for sticking with it!   
> (Um... we've read the tags, yes?)

_ My ghosts, where'd you go?  
What happened to the soul that you used to be? _

* * *

 

First of all, Tucker was  _ not _ flirting with that girl when the building collapsed. 

There’s a big difference, (as Church seriously needed to find out) between  _ flirting _ and casually  _ greeting _ a nice looking lady on the sidewalk. And then complimenting her hair. And her clothes. And her-- 

Okay, maybe he was flirting just a bit. 

But she was totally into it! Hell, she even winked and snapped her gum as she asked for his phone-- which he gladly passed over, shooting triumphant glances with Church. Flipping her hair over her shoulder as she passed it back with her number saved into the memory, winking again as she began to walk away. Tucker had seriously hit the jackpot this time. 

And then came the Collapse. The storm. 

At first, there was just a low rumble. A low, grumbling sound that trickled under the ground. Nothing unusual, or out of place. Maybe some thunder in the next city over. Maybe some construction to the east. Maybe just a car in the distance. In a city as big as Blood Gulch, rumbles and other odd noises aren’t too out of place. 

Except there was something different about this one. Tucker could almost feel it twisting and churning below the surface, tension and energy striving to be released in a ferocious--

A wave. A wave of dust and noise and chaos crashed down on the city before either Church or Tucker could react. Full oceans of dirt and debris washed over them, clouding their lungs, blinding their eyes, blotting out the sun. Tucker turned back to the girl, but she was gone. The ground shook, throwing them up and down, they stumbled back. And all the while, that low rumble began to build and build until it was a scream, a shout, a roar and it drowned out Tucker’s own thoughts. 

He felt Church’s hand on his wrist, dragging him to his senses, pulling him through the thick fog. Through the smoke, Tucker could see people running, things falling. He could feel the vibrations as stone and steel slammed into the ground not twenty feet away. Car alarms wailed. Fires burned. Water from broken pipelines sprayed throughout the streets, drenching everything-- including Tucker and Church. But that was the least of their problems. 

Running. Panting, Coughing. His eyes stung and his lungs burned. And he knew, the worst was still to come. 

He bumped into someone on the street. A man. Eyes wild. Missing part of his skull. They continued on their separate paths. 

Church incessantly tugged on Tucker’s wrist. He shouted something, but the noise drowned out his words, the Roar. 

“Oh my god!” a woman shrieked in his ear, and, as the two of them finally broke through to a relatively clear spot in the storm, Tucker looked up. 

The building was tilting at a terrifyingly dangerous angle, chunks from the rooftop sliding and crashing down. Metal creaked and groaned, cement grinded and churned, people screamed, and still, the roar. 

_ Snap!  _ Went the first tendon, with an ear-piercing shriek as half of the building dipped lower to the ground. Church tugged on Tucker’s wrist. They ran. 

_ Snap!  _ Went the second tendon, this time worse than the last because it left a hollow wrench in Tucker’s gut as they ran  _ away  _ from the building, and not toward it. 

_ Fuck that, why would I run  _ toward _ a collapsing building?  _ Tucker thought to himself wildly as his feet began to ache. Why indeed. 

A child screamed behind them. Tucker turned. Another snap. The child disappeared into the dust. 

And still the Roar. 

“Come on!” Church shouted, dragging Tucker along when his feet faltered. 

“But--” 

“There’s nothing we can do, come on!” Church was right, Tucker knew that. And with a soul-crushing, rattling breath, Tucker turned back around and kept running. People screamed. Metal crunched. But still, the Roar. 

They continued down the main road, though it didn’t look like the main road Tucker was used to seeing anymore. 

_ ‘Out of the city,’  _ he told himself desperately, firmly locking his gaze onto Church’s back as they ran.  _ ‘Just have to get out of the city!’  _

He coughed. His wiped his mouth. His hand was red. 

They ran. People ran. Loose dogs barked and whined. Loose dogs ran. One footfall after another. Just one step after another. Just one foot after the next--

The final tendon snapped, unleashing the full force of the mighty ocean, seething, frothing, crashing, breaking down upon the city. Asphalt smashed into shreds, stone and metal hurtled through the air as fires blazed high into the sky, and the dust, the everlasting dust. And the Roar, which grew louder and louder and higher and higher in Tucker’s ears as he and his friend sprinted with all their might with a last ditch attempt to clear the crashing zone, until the Roar wasn’t really a Roar at all, it was a scream and then it was a cry, and then it was simply a faint ringing in the back of his skull that split his head and drew tears to his eyes. 

A final breaking wave, and then it was silent. 

 

* * *

 

 

Tucker was…  _ somewhere.  _ The place, yellow and orange and red and blue, was annoyingly familiar, but he could not identify it whatsoever. The corners were blurred, there was a vague rectangle that looked like a window, and some blobs of brown that looked similar to chairs and tables, and  _ God, it was so familiar, _ but he still had no idea where he was.

There was one section of the place that  _ wasn’t  _ blurred, and so Tucker immediately headed over there. As he drew closer, a figure appeared, tall,  _ blonde,  _ leaning against some sort of counter. Muscular. Very muscular. 

“Hey,” Tucker said, his words sounding very thick and distant in his ears. “Can I buy you a drink?” 

He didn’t know why he wanted to buy the stranger a drink, but as he spoke the scenery cleared in ripples, like his world was water, and a pebble had been dropped in. The figure turned, and Tucker recognized him, and he recognized the place, and suddenly it was very loud, people talking, people laughing, people whispering, the smell of coffee, of cookies…

“Sorry,” the figure said, smiling politely, blue eyes strangely entrancing, blonde hair matching perfectly. “I don’t drink on the job.” 

It was the cop, Tucker remembered. That odd one, whom he had met in the park, and again at Coon’s Cafe. He was friends with the large man behind the counter, stopping by every so often. Tucker had noticed him more than once casually conversing with the big man, as if he  _ wasn’t _ talking to the world’s scariest mute. Tucker remembered being impressed with the way the cop knew everything the big man wanted to say, and responding easily. In fact, it almost looked like the two of them had a bit of a deeper relationship than they let on… 

But back to reality (or whatever this was), because now Tucker had the intense, wild urge to sing. He opened his mouth, and the first bar of a song slipped out uncontrollably. 

“If you change your mind…” he began, almost as startled as the cop. “I’m first in line. Honey, I’m still free.” What the… was this  _ Mama Mia?  _ “Take a chance on me.” 

From behind him, another voice joined in, adding a strangely good harmony. 

“If you need me, let me know, gonna be around.” Tucker turned. Big surprise, it was Donut singing. 

“If you’ve got no place to go, if you’re feeling down.” He was vaguely aware that all the conversation in the shop had stopped, and everyone had turned toward them. Including, he realized with a drop in his gut, Grif, Simmons and Sarge. He was never gonna hear the end of this. “If you put me to the test, if you let me try.”  _ Oh god, they were getting to the chorus--  _

And, in typical sappy-romance-musical style, as they hit the first line of the chorus, the customers in the shop jumped up, and began to sing along, clapping their hands. The cop only watched, stunned, and Tucker desperately tried to wake up from what only could be the worst dream ever. 

“If you change your mind, I’m the first in line!” And now he was  _ dancing,  _ and also wanting to die of embarrassment, and he realized he had  _ back-up  _ dancers, and the lights were dimming as a disco ball descended from the ceiling. 

The walls of the Cafe began to lower slowly, and the ceiling disappeared. Somehow, the dozens of people had been able to cram into the tiny shop, and now they were spilling out onto the streets, jumping on top of cars and dancing and singing, all with Tucker and the Cop in the middle of it. 

The song had restarted, and they were back on the first chorus again. 

The sky, blue, blue as the cop’s eyes, began to change to orange, and Tucker assumed the sun was setting. But the orange was turning darker and darker, and the lyrics finally slowed as he faltered and stared at the sky. The dance number was continuing around him, but even the sheer number of people couldn’t mask the sound of  _ the rumble.  _

“Oh god…” Tucker breathed, because he knew what was about to happen. He turned to the right-- and there it was. The building. The rumble grew stronger and the sky grew darker. “Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms and pointing at the building. “Guys! You need to run!” But people were still singing and smiling and the cop was still in the middle of it all, bewildered. Tucker raised his voice more. “Hey! Run!” 

The building fell faster this time, and within seconds, it was suspended over their heads, casting a ominous shadow over the people in the city. 

“Run!” Tucker shouted, but now his voice wouldn’t come out, and the people were  _ still singing _ , the song having started over for a third time. 

_ Screw this,  _ Tucker decided, searching the crowd for the Cop, seemingly the only sane person he knew. But the crowd grew thicker and denser, and he couldn’t find him, even though he struggled and fought his way through the people. Tucker scowled, frustrated. 

“Come ON!” he screamed, and blinked, and the people were gone. 

The streets were empty, and terrifyingly silent, and the building was still falling. Tucker blinked. He turned. He looked up. He waited. 

Someone was crying. A child. Tucker jerked his head down, looking around wildly. 

“Hello?” he said hoarsely. “Hello?” He blinked, he turned. 

The child was standing in front of him, rubbing her eyes and wailing. 

“Hey--” Tucker ran towards her, stretching out his arms. He scooped her up, looking around for shelter.  _ I need to get her out of here,  _ he thought desperately.  _ I have to save--  _

His arms were empty. 

“No…” he breathed. “No!” He turned in circles, around and around--  _ where was she?! _

He turned. He blinked. He looked up. He screamed. 

And the building came crashing down. 

* * *

 

Tucker inhaled sharply, eyes flying open, and flew up into a sit. He panted, running a shaky hand through his dreads, hugging his knees to his chest. He took several deep breaths, focusing, calming himself, shoving aside the last remnants of his dream. His alarm clock read four o’clock. He was sweating profusely, it was sticky, and he was hot, and he could swear he still felt a layer of dust on his skin. 

He needed a shower. Now.

He felt around the wall for a light switch, but after several minutes of searching, he decided to just give up and blindly threw back his covers. He used both his hands and muscle memory in a joined effort to guide him through his messy room, and down the hall. 

Tucker found his way into the bathroom, flipping on the light for a brief second before deciding to keep it off. In the dark, he peeled off his tank top and boxers, refusing to glance at his shadowy reflection in the mirror. Quietly, he turned on the faucet, sighing in relief as he stuck his hands in, and he let the cool water wash away the grime.

He had only just stepped inside when--

“Tucker! Is that you?!” He winced as a high-pitched voice sounded from outside the bathroom door. 

“Yeah ma, it’s me!” 

“You better not be taking  _ another  _ shower! You’re running up the water bill!” He sighed. 

“I’ll pay for it, ma!” he shouted back, and, after a second, he heard her huff and stomp away. He shook his head, and tilted his face up the the ceiling. 

The water had warmed up a little, but today, cold was what he needed. He let streams trickle down his face and his dreads, even though he knew they would never dry. He rubbed his scalp deeply-- it itched  _ so badly--  _ and scrubbed every inch of his skin with a clean washcloth. Lathering soap on his arms, his chest, his legs, his neck, he continued to brush water through his hair. He washed and washed until his skin was red and a little bit raw, sighing when he was forced to put the towel down because it was beginning to hurt. But he still felt dirty, still felt dust and mud on his skin. It was suffocating.

Tucker stayed in the shower gently rubbing behind his ears and other places where he couldn’t stick a towel until the bathroom began to lighten naturally and his fingers had long turned wrinkly. Feeling his skin heal just a bit, he washed himself once more until he turned off the faucet and grabbed a clean towel. 

He dried himself off completely, making sure to wring each dread out, one by one, and did a final swipe over his body. After throwing on a fresh change of clothes, he hung both the towel and the washcloth up and walked out of the bathroom, leaving each as pristinely white as they were when he walked in. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey man, you okay?” 

Tucker nodded, avoiding Church’s eyes as he scratched his own arm. “Never better.” He knew the answer wasn’t very convincing… but he also knew that Church wouldn’t push further. That was the good part about him. 

The two of them knocked on the garage door, and, after a moment’s hesitation, it began to lift squeakily up. The boys both ducked under and through, entering into a large room with a tiny table in the middle. 

Sarge, Lopez and Caboose sat across from each other at the table, each holding a hand of cards. 

“‘Sup, guys?” Church said, swinging over a chair and sitting down. Tucker took one as well. 

Sarge grunted, staring intently at his cards. 

“You boys wanna join in?” he asked, pulling one out and putting it face down in a pile in the middle. Caboose groaned loudly. 

“Ohhh, see, now, that’s what I was gonna play!” 

“¿Cómo sabrías? La carta está boca abajo, idiota.” [How would you know? The card is face-down, dumbass.] 

“What are you playing?” Church asked, eyeing the pile of cards. Sarge grunted again, pulling out another card and evoking an even louder groan from Caboose. 

“Well… I’m playing Uno. I don’t know what these guys are playing.” 

“Uno?” Tucker piped up. “Um… I’m pretty sure that’s not how you play it.” 

“‘Course it is!” Sarge said, finally looking up with a gleam in his eyes. He placed another card, and, while Caboose was groaning, quickly punched him hard enough to knock the Blue out of his chair. Lopez sighed, and Sarge punched him as well. The punch had no effect, but Lopez lowered himself out of the chair anyways. 

“See? Uno!” Sarge cried triumphantly. 

“Idiota,” Lopez muttered, as Caboose continued to groan from the floor. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Church?” Tucker asked quietly. The two of them were sitting on the sidewalk outside the Coon Cafe. Distant sirens echoed through the rubble-strewn streets. 

“Yeah?” The response was equally quiet-- it seemed almost disrespectful to raise their voice any higher than a whisper. But it wasn’t just that… there was something else holding back their voices. Tucker struggled to place it. 

“Do you think…” he started, but trailed off. What did he want to say? The silence fought back against him. “Do you think Maine’s okay?” That wasn’t what he really wanted to ask, but he could settle for it. 

Church was silent for a moment. They both knew the man behind the counter was more than just a cafe owner, but they had no idea exactly how big of a role he played in the Collapse. 

“I don’t know man,” Church admitted. “But he’s tough. I think… wherever he is, he’ll pull through.” 

Tucker exhaled. 

“He better,” Church added, grumpily folding his arms. “I don’t think I’ll last another day without that coffee. 

Tucker scratched his arms and rolled his eyes. 

“Dude, don’t tell me you’re going through withdrawal. I do  _ not  _ want to deal with that.” Church punched him, and they both fell silent. 

It was the memories, Tucker realized all of a sudden. The ghosts of the past days, cars, buildings, people, the absence of it all pressed down on his chest heavily, squeezing his lungs shut. 

Tucker scratched his arms. 

“Hey…” Church said suddenly. “I’m gonna… I’ve gotta go.” He stood up, and TUcker watched him with surprised eyes. 

“Oh okay.” 

“You… you good man?” Church asked uncomfortably. After a brief hesitation, Tucker nodded. 

“Yeah I’m good. See you around.” 

“Yeah, you too.” 

And with that, Church walked off down the road. Tucker watched him go, the staggered stride, his hesitation every empty building he passed. His shoulders were slumped. The memories were weighing him down, too. Tucker suspected he was having a harder time than he let on. 

_ “Excuse me? Mister?”  _ Tucker jumped, the child’s voice coming from out of nowhere. He glanced around, and, seeing nothing, stood up for a better view. 

_ “Excuse me?”  _ There. Across the street. Tucker squinted for a better view, and saw a little girl clutching a teddy bear. She was small, so small and fragile. 

“Hey!” Tucker called. “Are you okay?” He began to walk over to her, but every step he took, she seemed to be farther and farther away. “Hey!” 

_ “Mister? Can you help me?”  _ Tucker paused. 

“Help you? Yeah, of course. Can you… can you come here?” He stooped down lower, and motioned toward himself. She simply clutched her teddy bear tighter. “It’s okay, I can help you,” he tried, reassuringly. 

_ “Can you help me?”  _ Her voice was odd and distant. Tucker sighed and stood up. 

“Yes, of course. Let me just walk over there--” 

_ “Mis--ster?”  _ She was gone. He felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around and jumped back, startled as he found himself staring deep into her eyes. 

He… he knew that face. 

_ “Mis--ster?”  _

HIs mouth was so very dry, and his body felt really, really heavy. A cloud of dread settled over his shoulders. 

“I’m-- I’m here.” His lips cracked.

_ “Mis…”  _

And as he watched, horrified, a trickle of blood escaped from the corner of her eye, and then another from the top of her head, and one from her mouth, and the blood began to gush harder and faster and Tucker wanted to back away, but he couldn’t move his feet. The girl stepped close to him, and blood was pouring down her face, skin loosening around the corner of her eye. 

_ “Ca--n y--ou--”  _ Her voice was wrong, it was all wrong, it was raspy and broken and distant, and Tucker needed to  _ back away now.  _

She took a step closer, one small hand reaching up to him, but it was bloody, it was broken and bent at weird angles and there were pieces of asphalt embedded in it. He could see the bone. 

She opened her mouth, and blood poured out of that as well, seeping down her dress and onto the ground. She stared at him, dark, empty, lifeless, bloody eyes, and placed her hand on his face. 

“Help me,” she pleaded, and disappeared. 

Tucker screamed. 


	12. Aftermath

 

 _Oh God I think I'm dead_  
_I can't see outside my head_  
_Brains and bloods and cryptic gang men_

_I didn't mean to think out loud  
My tongue slipped but who let it?_

 

* * *

 

Wash was supposed to be just taking the pasta off the stove, grating the cheese, and pulling the lettuce out of the fridge. He was supposed to be in at least semi-decent clothes and was supposed to at least have taken a shower sometime during the day.

Carolina was supposed to be reading reports. She was supposed to be just beginning her night-time workout routine. She was supposed to have worked a few extra hours today, and was supposed to have been looking forward to the steady relaxation of chin-ups, push-ups and squats.

York was supposed to be sleeping. He was supposed to be preparing for a check-up in the hospital the next day. In reality, he wouldn’t have slept, even if he could, instead opting for watching the next episode of “Friends” (a guilty pleasure).

Instead? The three of them were pulling broken bodies out from underneath a collapsed building.

Wyoming didn’t really have any plans for the weekend, so he wasn’t supposed to be doing anything. But, he thought as he watched water drip from a leaky faucet in the quiet hospital room, he would have preferred anything over this.

North was supposed to be visiting his dad in Tennessee. South was supposed to be visiting her mom in California. North was supposed to be going to a derby that only happened once a year. South was supposed to be practicing with her mom for the church’s choral concert (which she would have found an excuse to skip anyways).

Instead? The two of them were closing off the streets of the city until that section could be cleared for civilian entry.

CT was supposed to be helping the twins section off roads and buildings. She was supposed to be dealing with angry civilians, angry suits, angry people who could not afford a day out of work, let alone a possible month.

Instead? She was gone. No one had seen her since an ambulance picked Wyoming up from the dark alley they had taken shelter in.

Maine, too, was supposed to be searching the wreckage for people, dead or alive. He was supposed to be using his terrifying strength to lift whole sections of infrastructure up so children and adults can crawl out. And he was supposed to be meeting up with Wash later that night for dinner.

Instead? He was gone, too. He would be missing for a much longer time than CT would be.

And when Maine would finally come back, from whatever pits of the Earth he had dropped into, he would never be the same.

 

* * *

  

Wash didn’t speak much in the days after the Collapse. He spent most of his time locked in his room, or his office, with the shades pulled down. He worked and worked and tried to distract himself from his life… but no matter how deep he threw himself into work, it was never enough.

He no longer had the luxury of college. In the end, his grades weren’t enough to keep him enrolled for another semester. So instead, he focused on his job and he managed to solve case after case without even leaving his room. He got two bonuses already. He didn’t care about the money.

Donut would stop by sometimes, dropping off dinner, or wine, or bath salts, or whatever he thought Wash might need. He would leave the gifts outside Wash’s door, knocked twice, then leave, knowing that Wash wouldn’t open the door. He would get it whenever he could spare a break.

His cats grew increasingly anxious, managing to sense (as animals often can) that something was wrong with him. They grew especially troublesome when he forgot to feed them for the second day in a row-- but don’t worry, they soon fixed that.

He only knew vaguely what had happened to the others. Wyoming was in the hospital with two shots to the shoulder and a sprained ankle. Carolina had spent some time in the hospital as well, but she insisted on leaving the second her minor fractures healed. Tex had taken lead of the unit during that time, but when Carolina came back, she disappeared back into the shadows.

York and South, unlikely partners, were often away on missions-- back-up for departments in other cities. They seemed to work well-enough together, each eager for a distraction from the Collapse.

North, as expected, was pulling clean-up 24/7, out of the goodness of his heart. He refused to take overtime, because… well, it was all he really could do.

CT was more distant than usual, never calling, and apparently would be out for days at a time. Normally, it would seem suspicious. Now, Wash couldn’t blame her.

But, out of all the Freelancers, only one remained in his mind the most. Wash would think of him when the fumes of coffee filled his apartment, tickling his nose (but it was never good enough), when he would bite down into a cookie Donut had left and the chocolate melted on his tongue, when it rained, when it poured, and Wash would glance out his window, suddenly seeing the view from his table at the cafe. Amber eyes, dark skin, strength, compassion, reassurance…

Maine.

* * *

 

The white sedan squealed as it hit a sharp corner and lifted off the two left wheel. Maine grunted, leaning toward the side, and the car landed roughly on the asphalt. He reached out the window, and fired at the car in front of him. The car returned several rounds, breaking straight through his windshield.

The two cars sprinted through the empty streets, jumping over rubble and swerving around fires as they traveled farther and farther away from the wreckage, to the very edge of the city.

The sedan followed the SUV into an alley. It turned another sharp corner, and again, the two wheels lifted off the ground.

This time, the car didn’t land.

 

 

When Maine awoke, he was alive.

Of course, that’s quite an obvious statement. How can one wake if one is not alive?

But his whole body hurt, and he couldn’t move, and it was cold, and as he lay for what seemed like several hours in the crushing darkness, Maine began to wonder if he really was alive or not.

The seconds stretched on and the minutes stretched on and the hours stretched on and on and on until he accepted that he was really alive because if this was death, then he didn’t want it. He was alive, because he _couldn’t_ be dead, there was so much he still had to do on the Earth, like….

Like what?

What more did he really have to do?

 

When Maine awoke, he was cold.

That was an understatement. The cold seeped into his very bones and squeezed with it’s icy grip. The cold froze his heart and it froze his mind until it began to freeze his soul and Maine began to lose all hope that this was a natural coldness.

It was, in fact, not a natural coldness. It was his brain beginning to shut down.

 

When Maine awoke, it was dark.

And that was all he had left to focus on, because he could no longer feel the pain, could no longer feel the cold, could no longer move or think and he wasn’t even quite sure he was breathing.

So he grasped at the darkness and clung on desperately because he was not dead, not yet, but he was dying and there was still more he had to do…

And as Maine lay in the only-darkness, he racked his brain for his purpose. He knew he still had more to do… but for his life he could not remember what it was.

There was only the darkness now, no more Maine. No more worries, no more purpose, no more struggle, no more searching for a reason to get out of bed in the morning. No more pain, no more cold, no more heartache, no more longing. No more family, no more friends, no more joy, no more sadness. No more.

There was only the darkness now, there was no more life.

So Maine let go of the darkness, and began to drift away.

But in the back of his head, Something pounded on the cage he had built long ago. Something cried desperately for him, Something begged him to stay alive. And Maine no longer cared to put a name to that Something, but that Something gave him his name anyways.

_I’m Wash, by the way. Short for Washington._

And then there was light.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Maine opened his eyes, he did not open them. Someone else did. They held his eyelids open for so long that his it began to sting and he needed to shut them... but he couldn’t.

After experimenting a little, Maine found that, in fact, he couldn’t move his body at all. The world blurred on the edges of his vision and echos of voice swam in and out of his mind and his body began to tip and he tried to focus on taking deep breaths but he could barely even do that.

A face peered down above him, narrow eyes squinting until they were simply black and eyebrows furrowing. Seconds after, a blinding light split his vision. Maine would have groaned… but he couldn’t do that either.

 _“Yep, he’s in there all right.”_ A loud, annoying voice slammed down on his ears, but still it was so distant, he was still so detached.

 _“How can you tell?”_ Another voice, deep, gruff, resounding. It made Maine’s ears hurt and his heart pound.

The light was shone into his eyes again. _“See that? Eye movement is deliberate.”_ Then someone shut his eyelids and the world was gratefully black again. But the voices didn’t leave.

_“So? What’s wrong with him?”_

_“Patience, man! I’m getting to it.”_

Maine felt a small, sharp sting on his palm (realizing for the first time that he could actually feel something besides cold) and tears involuntarily rose to his eyes.

_“Pain reaction still good.”_

Something tapped his knee, and he jerked. Again, involuntarily.

_“Reflexes intact.”_

The next few minutes were spent with someone poking and prodding Maine, performing a large variety of tests until he grew so sick of them that if he could, he would have leaped off the bed and ripped the presumed Doctor in half.

 _“So?”_ the deep voice repeated once the tests seemed to slow down. _“What’s wrong with him?”_ That’s what Maine really wanted to know.

The second voice sighed impatiently. _“Okay, okay. He still seems to be conscious-- see that? Those are brainwaves. All bodily functions are normal, and he’s not in a coma state, so I’m guessing… Locked-in Syndrome.”_

 _“Locked-in Syndrome?”_ Whatever that was, it didn’t sound good.

_“It’s when the person is still awake, but has a full body paralysis.”_

_“Is he dying?”_

_“Not yet, but if we don’t act fast, he will be.”_

_“You don’t mean--”_ At this, the voices receded, and though Maine strained to hear, he  couldn’t. He settled instead on processing his situation.

He’s been in hospitals before. He’s familiar with the smell of disinfectant that, though strong, has become to him like cookies baking in the oven are to happy families. Home.

He has at every possible injury or ailment at least twice (it comes as part of the job) and inside him are grids of pins, metallic plates, stents, and he’s pretty sure there are at least two bullets still inside him. All he could do was hope that these “doctors” didn’t decide to stick him into an MRI machine anytime soon, because God knows how _that_ will turn out. It actually happened once to him in his earlier days, when he was too incoherent to tell the stupid doctors anything. He had to spend another few weeks in the hospital for torn muscles afterward.

Maine didn’t think he could ever remember a time where his life _wasn’t_ dominated by liquid diets and bedpans and nurses too terrified to take his blood pressure (he ended up learning how to do it himself)-- which either meant he was spending way too much time in combat… or he was just a pretty shitty cop. At this point, both options were equally feasible.

All of this flashed through his head in an instant, and before he could process it all, his eyelids were being stretched open again.

 _“Hello in there…”_ the annoying voice muttered, flashing that damned light over his eyes again, and tapping him on the forehead. _“Are we awake yet?”_ Maine never felt the urge to kill someone more.

The doctor clicked his teeth and sighed.

 _“Alright, I guess I’ll just go for it. Well, my name is Gates. Isaac Gates actually, but you can just call me Doctor Gates. Or… you can just kinda sit there in mute silence.”_ He cleared his throat and paused for a second, probably waiting for a response of some sort. When it didn’t come, he sighed and set down the light. _“I’m going to be frank with you. You were in a… a freak accident. It’s unlikely that you’ll ever… well… do anything without assistance again.”_

The room suddenly got very small.

_“You have Locked-in Syndrome, which means you’ll never be able to move your muscles again.”_

A sharp pain stabbed the back of Maine’s head.

_“Running, walking, talking (although, judging by the state of your vocal chords, it’s unlikely that will bother you too much), none of it. You’ll never kiss your mom, hold your girlfriend again… any of that either.”_

A face flashed through his mind, and he struggled to draw the next breath. He needed this "Doctor" to leave. Now.

_“Sorry, but your life is probably going to suck ass from here on out.”_

Get out.

_“Honestly, I’m glad I’m not you.”_

Get. Out.

_“Okay, well if you need anything… just… well, I guess just deal with it ‘cuz I won’t be able to help you much._

GET. OUT.

Maine thrashed in his bed, struggling, pulling with all his might, his whole body seized and his lungs contracted far too tightly, he sat up, ripping the IV cords out of his arms, and lunged at the Doctor, they both topple to the ground--

The Doctor shrugged and stood up, flipping through the sheets on his clipboard, whistling an absent tune.

Maine’s eyelids were still open.

 

* * *

 

_Wash half ran, half stumbled through the Department doors, clutching the duffel in his good arm. Fillis jumped up, startled, at her desk as Wash fell in a dirty heap in the middle of the library._

_“Call… the…” he panted, as if he had run all the way to the building, and not driven. But his arm stung and his lungs ached, and with every passing second, there was a growing pain in his ribs. Not to mention covered head to toe in white ash. He must have looked like a madman._

_Fortunately, Fillis seemed to have read his mind, pressing a button on her desk and rushing over to him. She gently removed the bag from his grip, and helped him stagger to the nearest chair. Whipping out bandages and alcohol wipes out of nowhere, she began binding his arm and wiping off his face. The alcohol stung, but the relief from the wet blood soothed him a bit more._

_“Mission report.” A southern voice drawled from across the room. Big, black boots met white tile as the Director strode toward them. Pushing aside his pain for one second more, Wash struggled to his feet, saluting._

_“Sir, we got the Sarcophagus,” he nodded to the duffel, and Fillis picked handed it to the Director. “But…”_

_“But you managed to bring down a building in the process,” he finished, almost apathetically. Wash faltered. The Director unzipped the bag, rummaging through its contents. Wash watched expectantly as he shuffled through various scraps and parts, waiting to see what the Director would pull out. The Sarcophagus._

_But he simply zipped the bag closed._

_“Very good,” he muttered, and without a single pitying glance towards Wash, the Director turned and walked back into his office._

_Wash fell to the floor._

 

* * *

 

 

Wash awoke three months after The Collapse with a purpose.

He sat up in bed and threw off the covers. He ran a hand through his long, tangled hair, rubbed his eyes, and reached into his closet. He pulled out a set of clean, yet long dusty, clothes. He debated whether he had enough time to take a shower, but ended up just adding an extra layer of deodorant.

He grabbed his car keys, wallet and phone (which dinged with message 1,056), hastily threw some cat food in a large bowls, and left his apartment.

Moving quickly and confidently, he made his way down to the first floor, passing Donut with his large basket of things on the way. Wash reached in briefly and pulled out a bagel.

“Wash! Wait, where are you--”

“Thanks Donut!” he called over his shoulder, and exited the building, leaving Donut to stand bewildered in the middle of the hallway.

His car nearly didn’t start, but after several tries, he finally managed to get the engine to turn over. Sloppily, Wash backed out of his parking space, and sped off down the road.

 

* * *

 

Carolina was pacing in the lobby, nerves high, anxiously muttering to herself.

Today was the day, she knew. It had been postponed due to The Collapse, but the day had finally come.

Today she was to get her K-9. Sigma.

She would be the first in the unit to get one-- besides Tex. It was fitting, her being the head of the unit, and being the Director’s daughter, but she knew it was really only because of circumstances. York and South were assigned out in Chorus, dealing with a raging gang war. Wyoming, to his frustration, was still in the hospital. His wounds were healing slower than the Doctor’s had hoped, which was odd, because Doctor Gates was supposed to be the best around. CT had been fairly unreliable lately, growing more and more twitchy since she returned a few weeks after The Collapse. She refused to say where she had been, or what had happened. And North was still doing community service.

All of it put her on edge.

The door to the lobby behind her flew open, and she whirled around, expecting an angry Tex or Director-- though, logically, she knew they were both conspiring in his office. But she stopped in her tracks as her eyes fell on a face she hadn’t seen in a long time.

 _“Wash?”_ All of her anxiety drained away in an instant and she uncrossed her arms as he strode toward her purposefully. “What are you doing here?”

He pushed past her and continued straight to the receptionist’s desk, where Fillis stood, slightly worried.

Wash stepped right up to the desk.

“Officer Washington!” Fillis said, her voice shaking just a bit. Carolina frowned. Whatever was happening, it clearly put Fillis on edge. She wondered if the Director had said something secretary. “Can I help yo--”

“Where is he?” Wash demanded. Fillis pushed her glasses up.

“I don’t know who--”

“The Director. Where is he?” Wash repeated. Carolina stepped forward.

“Wash,” she said gently. “What’s going on?” She reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but he shifted out of the way-- as if she were going to burn him.

“Where is he?” he said again, and Fillis blanched.

“He’s in his office, but--” Wash turned and started toward the hallway. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea!”

“Wash!” Carolina said sternly. That was quite enough. It was one thing to show up to work after a three month’s disappearance, it was another to rudely scare Fillis-- Fillis, who couldn’t hurt a fly-- and brush off his friend as though she didn't existed. 

She lunged out at him, and grabbed his upper arm... and stopped in shock as she felt how _thin_ it was. She didn’t know what had happened to him in those three months, but it was obviously enough to turn her friend into a corpse.

A corpse with fire in his eyes, she realized, as he turned toward her. His gaunt eyes met hers, and she let go of his arm in surprise.

He turned back down the hallway, and continued on his way. Neither Carolina, nor Fillis made any move to stop him.

 

* * *

 

“Well?” the Director said, his contemptuous accent curling Tex’s top lip. She saluted, forcing herself to meet the eyes of the man she now knew was a murderer.

“I recovered the files from the wreckage sir.”

“And?” At his prompting, Tex reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of slightly charred paper.

“They had been sprayed with a protective covering, so they were mostly untouched by the explosion.” She placed the papers on his desk, and he picked them up. He flipped through them, and exhaled when he reached one page.

_“12/18/17: FOUND: Gene X!”_

“Damn it all,” he muttered. “Charon’s been holding out.”

“Sir?” Tex had looked through the papers herself, and developed a few suspicions herself as to what all the technical talk meant-- but the Director couldn’t know that.

He angrily shuffled the papers and placed them in a locked drawer. As he slid it open, Tex could see the top of the USB she had given him just a few months ago.

“Never mind. You are dismissed.” She sighed internally, disappointed. She saluted again.

“Yes sir--”

The door to the office slammed open, and Tex reflexively drew her gun from its holster. She dropped to one knee and aimed it at the first face she saw.

And then lowered it as she saw _Wash_ of all people, tailed by Carolina and Fillis.

“Officer Washington,” the Director drawled smoothly, as if Wash had simply dropped by as told. “Come in.”

Which Wash did, pushing past Texas and walking right up to the desk.

“Sir,” he started. “I’d like to see what was in the bag.”

Tex and Carolina both were equally stunned. The _nerve_ of him! You can’t just demand something of the Director, you had to gain his trust, gain his approval… it took _time_ to pull one over on him. Wash couldn’t have been more foolish.

But instead of immediately dismissing him, the Director sat back in his chair.

“And why should I show it to you?” Wash took a deep breath.

“With all due respect sir, this entire unit risked our lives for that bag. A building collapsed, and Maine’s missing--”

“And who’s fault is that?” the Director asked. Carolina backed up a little bit. “Did I ever specifically say to you that the only way to gain this bag is to destroy a building?”

“No sir.”

“And did I purposefully send Maine out, alone, and into an unnecessarily dangerous situation?”

“No sir, but--”

The Director leapt up, towering over the rookie and three women.

“Then how, Officer Washington, am I _exactly_ entitled to tell you what was recovered in the bag?”

Wash gaped.

“I… I suppose you aren’t sir.”

Tex and Carolina exchanged glances. They weren’t particularly surprised about the outcome, but neither could deny they were curious about the contents of the bag as well.

The Director sat back down slowly, and waved his hand.

“Get out of my office. All of you.”

 

* * *

  

That damned Doctor was back. Gates, his name was. Maine didn’t care. All he knew was the moment that Doctor stepped into the room, he was going to be subjected to all kinds of torturous tests for the next few hours. Swear on his life, if Maine was hit with that tiny hammer _one more time_ , he was going to break it in half and shove the pieces up the Doctor’s ass.

First came the eyedrops. The first ones were a blessed relief, moisturizing the dry and cracked film on top of his eyes. The second ones, however, stung and brought on a few tears. Helpless as he was, he couldn’t stop himself from crying.

It was humiliating, not being in control of his body. He had to rely on someone to feed him, couldn’t even control when he used the bathroom. Was this going to be the rest of his life?

If he could, Maine would have closed his eyes. He pictured Wash. _Wash,_ blonde hair and blue eyes. Cats. Smiles. He smelled fresh, like pine needles and freshly cut grass. Maine would give anything to see him again.

But then, as expected, came the pinprick of a needle. He had to have his blood drawn frequently, but he was never told why-- whether it was for tests or his own good, or for some other ghastly reason. He did not trust the men at all.

Next came a series of tapping-- a test of reflexes. Then a tiny pinch-- pain reaction. A bright light over his eyes-- reaction to light stimulus. And finally that _damn_ hammer.

But before the Doctor left this time, he pulled out a small silver briefcase and sat in a chair near the bed.

“Hello Maine.”

_Go away._

“I’ve got something for you today.”

_I don’t care._

“It’s still experimental, so I can’t say for sure--”

_Leave._

“But, theoretically, it could help you get better.”

_What?_

Maine looked at the Doctor in disbelief. After being paralyzed for three months, unable to move, eat, walk, even scratch an itch, after being told that his case was hopeless, after coming to terms that he would be as alive as a rock for the rest of his life… here the Doctor was telling him that he could be saved.

The Doctor popped open the latches on the case as he talked.

“Like I said, this is an experimental copy. The original was stolen. We believe it was the reason the Hargrove building collapsed three months ago.” He paused, and looked meaningfully at Maine. “We believe it was your unit, in fact, that took it.”

The monitor next to Maine began to beep rapidly. His heart rate was elevated.

The Doctor chuckled. “Guess we were right.”

“Anyways, that brings me to our deal.”

 _Deal?_ _  
_ “You see, this is quite the expensive formula. We aren’t going to give it to just anyone… That would be ridiculous.”

_No. I need it._

“We do believe you can be of help to us, though.”

_Yes. I’ll help you._

“We need you to get the original back to us.”

_Wait. No. I can’t betray my unit._

“Unfortunately, I can’t exactly tell whether you agree or not. So let me make this simple.” The Doctor moved the case out of sight, and unwillingly, Maine’s heart surged with it. He wanted the cure, he couldn’t deny that. He almost wanted it, no matter the cost. But he also couldn't betray his unit, his friends, him home. It was a question of which he was more willing to sacrificed. 

In its place, the Doctor placed a tablet, propped up so Maine could see.

On it was a live video feed. It showed a park, a park Maine knew. In the park was a bench, a bench that Maine knew. It was where he picked Wash up a few months ago, when Wash had desperately called him out of the blue. They had gone back to his apartment. Wash introduced Maine to his cats, and they both got very drunk. That was the night when Maine promised he would protect Wash.

A promise he couldn’t keep.

The Doctor zoomed in on the bench, and Maine made out the figure of a man, a figure Maine knew all too well.

_Wash. You’re watching him._

There was a man dressed in all black on the bench across from Wash. He was reading a newspaper, but the Doctor tapped a button, and the camera angle switched to one that could see behind the paper. The man was holding a semi-automatic, pointed right at Wash. 

Maine got the message. Work with them, or they would kill Wash.

The Doctor smiled. “You understand our terms?”

_You bastard._

He pulled out the case again.

“Then, without further ado, I present to you the first ever regenerative serum. It can heal any injury, any ailment. It can even reverse aging. You should be lucky-- you will be the first to receive it.”

He popped open the top, and turned it so Maine could see. A set of several microscopic needles sat in the middle.

“It will be inserted into a few different select cells in your blood, organs and bone marrow. There, it will heal damaged DNA, then reproduce. Within forty-eight hours, your body will be completely reborn.”

“I present to you, Gene X.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's been a while.


End file.
